


past due for a harvest

by deathbanjo



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Time, M/M, Not Endverse, Post-Apocalypse, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-05
Updated: 2018-03-05
Packaged: 2019-03-27 14:31:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 34,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13882863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathbanjo/pseuds/deathbanjo
Summary: “So the prize fight went down, someone sets off an angel nuke, and I wake up in a wheat field a hundred miles away,” Dean says. “How the hell does that happen?”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> canon-divergent after 5.17 (“99 problems”). i had about 7k of this sitting on my hard drive for a year and finally decided to add another 30k, because why not. my attempt at an ~aesthetic-y post-apocalyptic-y (but not endverse) fic that was, in part, inspired by _carnivale_. The [amazingly talented Liz](https://lowkeyguru.tumblr.com/) has provided some fantastic art - please go give her lots of love!
> 
>  
> 
> **for more notes and (spoiler-y) warnings, please see end-notes.**

_The harvest is past, the summer has ended,_  
_and we are not saved._  
_— Jeremiah 8:20_

Someone shouts and Dean comes to in the middle of a wheat field, blood and dirt under his fingernails. Cold air rushes into his lungs as he gasps and tries to remember how to breathe.

Coughing, he rolls onto his side, tries to spit the copper tang of blood out of his mouth and ends up dry-heaving. When nothing comes out, he rolls onto his back again, wipes his mouth with his hand and bats a piece of wheat away from his face. He waits for the shaking to stop, watches dark clouds blow past, a few cold raindrops hitting his shirt, a flash of lightning and a rumble of thunder overhead.

After a minute, Dean sits up, winces as his stomach clenches, tight with hunger, and his vision swims. The ringing in his ears muffles the wind, the thunder. He looks around, sees nothing but wheat stretching around him for miles. A crooked path cuts through the field to his right, the stalks bent and crushed. It stops when it reaches him. At the far end the ground slopes up towards the road, the Impala’s shape a black smudge against the dark sky, her passenger door hanging open.

“The hell,” Dean says.

With a grunt he pulls himself off the ground, wobbling slightly as he gets to his feet. He picks his way back through the wheat, stopping every few minutes to wait out the nausea. He manages to crawl up to the road and into his car, comforted by the leather seats under his hands, and shuts the door behind him, blocking out the wind. 

The back seat is empty, no sign of Sam. Dean finds his phone wedged in the seat, at least, and tries all of Sam’s numbers. Each time an automated voice says none of them are in service. He tries Cas next—same deal—then, finally, Bobby. Nothing. 

Tossing his phone aside, Dean slides into the driver’s seat and starts the engine. Baby rumbles into life under him and a cloud of static comes blasting out of the speakers. Dean searches for another station, then another, then finally turns the radio off and stares down the empty road ahead of him.

“I reiterate,” he says. “What the hell?”

///

He drives for nearly an hour before he finds any sign of life. There’s a truck parked outside a small gas station, the kind with only two pumps and a junkyard in the back. But there’s a payphone and an open sign in the window glowing neon red. Dean pulls into the parking lot and kills the engine.

It’s muggy when he steps outside, the sun slinking out from behind the clouds, leaving a heavy haze on the horizon. Dean walks over to the payphone, digging out his change, only to find that line’s dead, too. Slamming the phone back into its cradle, he turns around and nearly barrels into an old woman.

“It’s you,” she says. She reaches for him, knuckles swollen with arthritis, skin pale.

Dean steps away. “Uh, do I know you?”

“It’s you,” the woman says again, still reaching.

Dean grimaces, his stomach turning with another wave of nausea. “Sorry, ma’am. You got the wrong guy.”

“Please,” the woman says. “Please—”

“Look, lady—”

A man rounds the corner of the building and says, “Mom.”

The old woman looks at him, smiles, then looks back at Dean.

“Look, it’s him. It’s Michael,” she says.

The man takes his mother by the arm, his hand covering her wrist, and gently pulls her away, giving Dean an apologetic smile. The old woman stares at him as she’s led away, eyes wide and mouth open. Dean presses his palm against his stomach and watches them go.

///

The cashier—a middle-aged woman with dyed blonde hair and bright red nail polish—glances at him when he comes inside, then turns back to the television. She flips through station after station of static. It takes Dean a minute to realize there’s no music playing through the ceiling speakers.

He points at them and says, “Not having any luck either?”

The woman shakes her head. “Just crapped out all of a sudden. Every single station. Television too.”

“Huh.”

He wanders to the back of the store and grabs two bottles of water from the fridge, then pulls chips and beef jerky and trail mix off hooks, a box of crackers from the shelf. He dumps his armload on the counter and digs his wallet out of his back pocket, counts his money.

“Long drive?” the cashier asks.

“Uh—maybe,” Dean says. “Can you tell me where I am?”

The woman stops ringing in his food to look him over. After a minute she says, “You’re outside Talmage, Nebraska.”

“Talmage,” Dean says. He draws a mental map, adds up the numbers. It’s still about 250 miles from Sioux Falls. He nods and says, “Thanks.”

Overhead, the lights flicker and buzz, then the power goes out.

///

He heads north with the windows down and gives up on the radio again after a few minutes. Instead he shoves an old mixtape into the deck, something he made when John was still alive. He taps his fingers along to Creedence and ignores the tingling in his hands, the rock in his gut every time he passes another town without power.

An hour outside Sioux Falls, he pulls the car over onto the shoulder and puts her in park. He moves his snacks into the back seat. He only picked through them, couldn’t find anything to settle on, stomach tight with nerves. His phone sits next to him, still and quiet like the dead.

“Fuck it,” he says. He exhales and closes his eyes, directs his thoughts, his energy—whatever—upwards, outwards. It’s been a while since this worked, but it’s worth a shot. “Cas, I dunno where you are or if you can even hear me, if you’re even—uh. But I’m heading to Bobby’s. So, if you get this… I’ll be there soon. Just—yeah.”

He puts the car in drive again and pulls back onto the road.

///

Bobby aims a shotgun at him by way of greeting.

“Don’t come any closer, you sonuvabitch,” he says.

“Bobby, what the hell?” Dean asks, hands up in surrender. “This a new thing with you, huh? We gonna do this every time I come here?”

Bobby stares down the barrel of his gun at him, quiet for a moment, just watching. Then his shoulders droop and he lowers the gun. He leans it against the porch railing and rolls his wheelchair down to the drive, Dean backing away, hands still up. Bobby pulls him down into a hug, bone-crushing, his fingers curling into the back of Dean’s shirt.

“God dammit,” Bobby says. “God _dammit_ , boy. I thought for sure—”

“What’s going on?” Dean asks.

Bobby pulls back to frown at him. “What d’you remember?”

“Uh, well. Me and Sam were working a case—demons, and a false prophet thing. I, uh. I ditched Sam and Cas and went and saw Lisa, then booked a motel,” Dean says. “I must’ve blacked out, or something, because I just woke up in a wheat field in Talmage and I can’t get ahold of anyone.”

Bobby stares at him. “False prophet—that girl from the church?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, dammit,” Bobby says.

Dean frowns. “What?” 

“Dean,” Bobby says. “That was two months ago.”

Dean’s vision goes dark at the edges. He stumbles sideways and Bobby reaches out to grab him.

“Easy,” he says. “You really don’t remember anything?”

“No, I—Bobby, what’s going on?” Dean asks. “Where are Sam and Cas?”

Bobby doesn’t let go of his arm. He looks towards the house and says, “You’re gonna wanna sit down for this.”

///

Bobby’s house thankfully still has power—for now. The lights flicker every now and then but hold steady. Dean tries the television without much hope. It ends up being more of the same, just static on every station.

After Dean’s picked through a burnt meatloaf and worked his way through enough whiskey to make his face feel warm, the air in Bobby’s library tightens, retracts like an inhale, then rips with a flutter and a loud crash as Cas lands on the floor in a heap.

“Cas?” Dean jumps out of his seat and rushes over to him, Bobby looking over his desk to watch, slack-jawed in surprise.

“Dean.” Cas reaches for him, frantic, grabs his arm when he’s close enough. “You—you’re—”

“Hey, hey, careful. I gotcha.” Dean helps him off the floor. There’s blood down the front of his coat, on his white shirt, his tie gone. Cas studies him for a moment, and before Dean can say anything, throws his arms around his shoulders and tugs him closer.

“Oh, uh—” Dean opens his mouth, then closes it again and lets himself relax into the hug, rests his hand between Cas’s shoulders. “Yeah, okay. Hi.”

Bobby clears his throat and gestures with his beer towards the kitchen. Dean doesn’t say anything, just nods. He closes his eyes once Bobby is gone, lets his chin drop to Cas’s shoulder, just for a second, then pulls back, his hand rustling the flap of Cas’s coat.

“I heard your prayer and I—I tried to come sooner, but—my grace,” Cas says. “It’s fading.”

Dean sits back down on the couch. “So you’re—what, falling?”

Cas nods.

“Shit,” Dean says. “Sorry.”

Cas shakes his head. “It’s—it doesn’t matter. Where’s Sam?”

Dean frowns at him. “I was about to ask you the same thing.”

“I haven’t seen him since he—” Cas stops, looks at him. “You don’t remember anything?”

“No,” Dean says, “I guess archangels don’t need you to be sober when you consent.”

Cas sits down next to him. “Sam tried to stop you, but—”

“Yeah,” Dean says. “I know. Bobby told me.”

Cas nods, expression soft. “I’m sorry, Dean.”

“Yeah, well.” Dean clears his throat and grabs his glass of whiskey. “Sam’s still out there. Just gotta figure out where.”

Bobby rolls through the kitchen doorway, fresh bottle of beer in hand. “You might be better off just staying here.”

“I gotta find him, Bobby,” Dean says. “Besides, if he does come back here, you’ll let me know.”

“Not sure if you noticed, but all the phones are dead,” Bobby says.

“Cas can let me know,” Dean says. He turns to him and asks, “You can do that, right?”

“I’m not sure,” Cas says. “Losing my grace—I’m not sure what my limitations will be.”

“Fine. Send me a carrier pigeon, whatever.” Dean takes a drink and says, “I’m not gonna just leave him out there to find his way back by himself.”

Cas looks over at Bobby, who shifts in his chair, moves his beer from one hand to the other.

“Dean,” he says gently. “I know you don’t wanna hear this—”

“He’s alive, Bobby.”

“He said yes to Lucifer,” Bobby says.

“I said yes to Michael and I’m still here,” Dean says.

“Yeah, exactly,” Bobby says. “You’re still here.”

Dean exhales and looks at Cas. Cas watches him, quiet. Dean huffs and downs the rest of his whiskey in one go, slides the glass back onto the table before he stands.

“I’m going to bed,” he says. He looks at Cas again, then at Bobby. “And tomorrow I’m going out and I’m finding Sam.”

///

The front door shuts and Dean jolts awake.

Someone left the stove light on, but otherwise the house is quiet, the alarm clock on Bobby’s desk reading just after 2am. He throws the covers off and heads into the kitchen, checks the bathroom just in case, wanders down the hall. The porch light glows through the front window.

It’s a warm night, the wind finally quieting down and leaving the sound of crickets and frogs to pick up the slack. A few moths flutter against the light, a few more mosquitoes.

Cas sits on the front step with his back to the house. Dean shuts the door behind himself and moves to stand next to him.

“You’re awake,” Cas says.

“Heard the door. Thought—never mind.”

Cas looks up at him. Dean clears his throat and plunks down next to him. They sit in silence for a few minutes, Cas staring into the darkness and Dean watching Cas, the lines of his face, the way his fingers slide against each other, absent-minded.

“So you’re probably pissed at me, huh?” Dean says. He nods and says, “I get it.”

“I’m not… happy, no,” Cas says. He moves his hands, holds them a bit tighter. “But it doesn’t really matter now.”

“‘Course it matters,” Dean says. “You bet your life savings on a losing horse and got kicked out of the box seats.”

“What I know now—” Cas shakes his head, looks at him. “I might have been compliant before, Dean, but I still had my doubts. You know that.”

“Still sucks.”

“It’s better this way,” Cas says. “I might not be much of an angel anymore, but at least I’m free.”

Dean looks at him. “You really believe that?”

“I don’t have much else.”

Right. Dean picks at a loose nail in the floorboards. It leaves rust against his fingers. He gives up when he can’t pull it out and wipes his hand on his jeans.

Cas watches him. “I could go with you, if you’d like.”

“To find Sam?” Dean asks.

Cas nods. “I’m not sure how much help I’ll be without my grace, but it can’t hurt to have a second pair of eyes.”

“Yeah. That sounds good, actually. We can get you a gun,” Dean says. He looks him over, plucks at Cas’s sleeve. “Maybe some new clothes, too.”

Cas looks down at his shirt. “What’s wrong with my clothes?”

“You need more than one outfit, Cas,” Dean says. “Especially since that one’s covered in blood.”

Cas doesn’t argue. He slips his hands into his lap and stares out across the lot again. A mosquito buzzes by Dean’s ear. He waves it away. Somewhere in the dark, further down the road, a dog barks.

“I’m glad you’re alive,” Cas says, breaking the silence.

Dean looks at him but Cas doesn’t turn his head, his body eerily still, stoic in a way Dean hasn’t seen since they first met. Still everywhere except for his knuckles, twitching as his fingers fidget. After a minute, Cas notices Dean staring and slips his hands between his knees, pins them together.

“I didn’t think I would—” Cas blinks and inhales, slow. Voice quiet, he says, “I thought you were dead.”

Cas looks at him then, eyes bright, and something in Dean’s chest flutters loose, the pieces breaking apart and making him forget to breathe. There’s a pull in his hands, magnetic, an urge to reach out and touch Cas’s knee, his knuckles. Just to see if that cold marble exterior has really started to break apart. If there’s heat coming out of the cracks.

Dean mirrors Cas’s position, slips his hands between his knees to stop them from reaching. 

“I’ve probably got some spare clothes you can wear. If you’re coming with me.”

Cas looks away again. “All right.”

“In the morning,” Dean says.

Cas nods. “In the morning.”


	2. Chapter 2

Dean showers and shaves just as the sun starts to rise along the horizon, the smell of breakfast creeping its way upstairs. He shoves his toiletry bag back into his duffel and makes his way downstairs, voices carrying out from the kitchen.

“I told you, Bobby. You ain’t gonna find nothin’,” Rufus says. He’s got his nose buried in an old radio, screwdriver in hand and Bobby’s tool kit resting open on the table in front of him. Across from Rufus, Cas wraps his hands around his mug of coffee and nods to Dean when he walks in.

“Shut up, Rufus,” Bobby says, his back to the table. He flips bacon with a fork and says, “No harm in tryin’.”

Rufus grumbles and drops his screwdriver. The tool box rattles as he searches through it.

Dean pours himself a mug of coffee and leans against the counter. “What’s going on?”

Rufus looks at him. “End of the world, case you haven’t noticed.”

“Yeah, I’ve been a little busy,” Dean says. He takes a drink and makes a face, the coffee hovering on the line between warm enough and disgusting.

Rufus squints an eye at him. “I heard. Which direction did you come from?”

Dean frowns at him. “South. Why?”

“Uh-huh.” Rufus turns his attention back to the toolbox. He manages to find a pair of pliers at the bottom and shoves the toolbox aside. “I told you, Bobby.”

Bobby looks over his shoulder at him, then at Dean, then turns back to the stove.

“Why?” Dean asks again, straightening up.

Rufus pauses his fiddling and looks at Bobby, who ignores him, pulling clean plates out of the dishrack—four of them—and scooping out bacon and eggs and beans. Putting his pliers down, Rufus looks back at Dean, studying him.

After a minute, he says, “Things have been goin’ all kinds of crazy last couple of months. Freak storms, power outages, flash floods. Whole towns got destroyed.” He shoves the radio aside so Bobby can drop a plate in front of him. “But yesterday, I had a hunter pop in on me, and she heard from somebody who heard from somebody that somethin’ big went down.”

Dean’s stomach turns. “Something big?”

“Nuclear big.” 

Bobby hands a plate over to Cas, who hesitates before taking it, and slides a plate across the table for Dean before parking his chair. Dean sits down, grabs a piece of bacon and rips the end off. It’s hot against his fingers, greasy. He barely tastes it.

“Folks are sayin’ it’s like a bomb went off,” Rufus continues around a mouthful of egg.

“Then all of a sudden it stopped raining,” Bobby says. “Sun came out for the first time in weeks. No wind. Barely any clouds. It’s warm. Birds are singing.”

Rufus nods. “But phone lines are dead. Stations have gone off air. Communication’s been spotty the last couple of months, sure, but not like this.”

Dean glances at Cas. Cas looks up from his food, from the beans he’s been poking at with his fork, and meets his eye. Dean steels himself, looks across the table to Rufus again.

“Where’d the bomb go off?”

“Kansas,” he says. “Stull.”

Dean swallows. The pit in his stomach sinks deeper.

“Well, I guess I know where to start,” he says.

Rufus shakes his head. “You’re not gonna find anything there.”

“I don’t care,” Dean says. “I’m going.”

“I mean, it’s been wiped off the map,” Rufus says. “I’m talking Chernobyl, kid.”

“Dean’s right,” Cas says. Rufus looks at him and Cas nods to Dean. “This is worth checking out.”

He goes back to his food, and at the other end of the table, Bobby and Rufus exchange a look. Rufus shakes his head and grabs the radio again. Dean moves his food around his plate a minute before deciding he’s not hungry.

///

After breakfast, Dean hands Cas a pile of fresh clothes and points him in the direction of the bathroom with orders to shower. He listens to the pipes rattle overhead and sits down on the couch, pulls everything out of his duffel and tries to ignore the dull, anxious buzz in his bones.

He counts the salt rounds rolling around at the bottom of his bag, the handful of mixtapes and the dog-eared book he stole out of a lost and found box. Reassured that he has everything, he folds his clothes back up nice and neat, packs everything away just as Bobby appears in the doorway with a cardboard box in his lap. 

“Thought you might want this back,” he says, setting the box down on the desk. 

Dean gets off the couch and moves towards it. The tape’s been tampered with, pulled up on one side, leaving a trail of rough cardboard where the top layer was pulled off. Dean opens the flaps. His leather jacket is still inside, his gun, a folded piece of paper with his own drunken handwriting scrawled on it. The only thing missing from the box are his keys, now tucked away in the pocket of his jeans.

Dean frowns. “How’d I get the car?”

“Hell if I know. Sam had it last I saw him,” Bobby says. “Rufus got the radio working. Got a connection with mine for a hot minute. Just in case Feathers loses his signal when you’re on the road.”

“Thanks,” Dean says. Upstairs the shower cuts off. Bobby gives him a nod and leaves him to it, rolls out of the library and down the hall.

Dean reaches into the cardboard box. He takes his gun out first, checks the magazine, then tucks it into the back of his jeans. Next he pulls out his jacket and unfolds it, brushes his hand down the arms to smooth out the creases, the leather smooth under his fingers.

He pulls down the zipper and gets one arm in the sleeve, then the other, shrugging the jacket up over his shoulders, the weight of it comfortable and familiar.

///

Dean slams the trunk closed and finds Cas standing next to him. He jumps, surprised, and exhales, puts his hand on Baby’s hood to steady himself, the metal hot and dusty against his palm.

“You scared the shit out of me,” he says.

“Apologies,” Cas says. He looks different in normal clothes, with holes in the knees of his jeans and one of Dean’s faded Sabbath t-shirts, left untucked, underneath a misbuttoned blue plaid flannel.

Dean snorts and turns to face him, steps closer and reaches out to pluck at his shirt buttons. “You really can’t dress yourself, can you?”

“I thought I did okay,” Cas says.

Dean undoes each one, practiced, the holes loose from years of wear. He holds his breath as he works, Cas standing still, his head tilted down to watch Dean straighten out the fabric, line the holes up with the right button. He starts at the bottom and works his way up, leaves the top two undone so the collar of his t-shirt is visible.

“There,” he says. “Not so sloppy.”

He steps back and gives Cas a smile. Cas just eyes him, curious, then lifts his hand, holds out the radio. It’s beat to hell from years of living in Bobby’s basement, but the battery pack Rufus put in is new and able to recharge with solar power, since “Something tells me you’re gonna need it.”

“Keep it,” Dean says. “You can be our radio man.”

They pile into the car, the air inside dry and smelling of road dust, the leather hot to the touch. Cas keeps his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, arms bare, the sun making his skin look golden and warm. He sets the radio on the seat next to him and turns to look out the window as Dean starts up the engine.

Dean gives Bobby’s house one last glance in the rearview. He puts the car in drive and pulls onto the road, points it south, towards Kansas, the pull in his stomach getting stronger.

///

They’re driving through farmland when Cas manages to find a radio signal.

He started fiddling with it shortly after they left Sioux Falls, bending the antenna and frowning at it, undeterred by the static. Then he gave up for a while, set the radio aside until he got bored again. 

Dean leaves him to it, enjoying the companionable silence. He watches Cas’s fingers out of the corner of his eye, twisting the dials slow, careful, until the radio lets out a whine as a noise tries to emerge from underneath a blanket of static.

“Wait, hang on,” he says. He reaches out to slow Cas’s hand. “You hear that?”

He holds his breath, waits as the static grows louder, then fades, the unmistakable sound of a guitar bleeding out from the white noise.

“There,” Dean says. “What was that?”

Cas frowns. “Music?”

“Keep tuning it.” Dean glances at Cas’s hands, watches his fingers on the dial. “Slow—go slow.”

Cas does as he’s told, the static melting away, steady, until a voice comes out. It’s slightly tinny and faded, a man with a southern twang singing a cowboy ballad over soft guitars, “ _…and lightning flashed about. I thought someone was calling me, I thought I heard a shout._ ”

Dean feels a chill run up his spine, spread across his shoulders and down his arms, leaving goosebumps behind. He tightens his grip on the steering wheel and says, “Turn it off.”

Cas looks at him. “Dean, no one’s been able to find a radio signal for—”

“I said turn it off!”

Cas studies him for a long moment. Then he looks away, jaw tight, and switches the radio off, the crackle of music disappearing, the car filling with silence. Dean grabs the tape sticking out of the deck, turns it over and shoves it back in, turns the volume up.

“You want music, we can listen to this,” he says.

Cas doesn’t look at him and doesn’t say anything.

///

The closer they get to Stull, the tighter Dean’s stomach gets, the colder his hands feel. There’s a low ringing in his ears, a tingle that makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up, his shoulders tense. He glances into the back seat, again and again, but each time there’s nothing there.

They hit a pothole. The further they drive, the worse the road gets. The uneven dips and deep cracks turn into missing chunks, entire sections of the road washed away, shifted like the ground after an earthquake. The trees start to thin out, and the grass slowly turns from a rich, vibrant green to dull yellow, then brown.

Dean eases up on the gas, takes the small hill in front of them slow and steady. There hasn’t been another car for miles, and even then it was a family on the side of the road, stopped because they ran out of gas. They reach the crest of the hill, the sky opening up before them, and Dean’s stomach rolls.

Cas frowns ahead. “Is that—”

Ahead of them, the road gives way entirely, nothing left but dirt and rock and the broken remains of a small bridge. Beyond that, where a handful of houses and trees used to make up Stull is now completely empty.

Dean yanks the car over to the shoulder and white-knuckles the steering wheel as he takes in deep breaths, the pain in his stomach making sweat break out over his brow, roll down his back. Cas touches his wrist, gentle, and Dean swallows, looks over to him.

“Guess we found ground zero,” he says.

///

The metal gate that separated the cemetery grounds from the rest of the village lies in twisted piles, and the trees that offered shade and a place for crows to stare down at trespassers have been flattened. A deathly silence hovers over the grounds, like the earth is holding its breath, waiting for something.

Dean rubs at the back of his neck, tries to smooth away the tingling that’s dripped down his arms and into his hands, settled into his gut. He checks over his shoulder, squints through the haze for something that isn’t there.

“What do you feel?” Cas asks.

“Sick,” Dean says.

“Besides that.”

“I dunno,” Dean says. He shivers, rolls his shoulders. “This place is dead, but it feels—it feels like there’s something here. Like energy—or a pulse, almost. I don’t know.”

Cas nods. “They were here.”

Dean bends down, presses his palm to the ground, feels the dull vibration buzz in his bones. He scrapes up a handful of dirt, lets it rest in his palm a moment before turning it over and brushing it away.

“So the prizefight went down, someone sets off an angel nuke, and I wake up in a wheat field a hundred miles away,” Dean says. “How the hell does that happen?”

“I don’t know,” Cas says. He looks around slowly and says, “Dean… an archangel died here.”

Standing in a blast zone with everything else dead around them, it’s really not hard for Dean to connect the dots, to figure out which angel got their ticket punched. Despite that, there’s the pull in his gut, the weight at the back of his neck, the feeling he can’t shake.

“South,” Dean says.

Cas looks at him. “South?”

“That’s where we’re going next.”

Cas opens his mouth, then closes it again, brushes past him to head back to the car. Dean looks out across the empty cemetery as something hums under his skin.

///

The heat is stifling as they walk back to the Impala. Cas pulls his plaid shirt off and ties it around his waist. Dean watches a bead of sweat roll down the side of his face, his neck, watches Cas pull at his t-shirt and grumble in annoyance. Dean turns his head to look away, to try and hide his laughter.

“I don’t like sweating,” Cas says, wiping his face with his t-shirt and flashing his stomach.

“Aw c’mon, dude.” Dean grins at him. “It’s not that bad.” 

Cas glares at him. “I’m hungry. I’m dehydrated. There’s a pebble in my shoe.”

“Christ, you whine a lot. Anyone ever tell you that?” Dean asks. Cas turns to argue when Dean feels it, a rise in pressure, the air around them closing in, getting thicker. He stops and holds up his hand. “Wait, stop—”

There’s a rip, too-loud in the eerie silence, and a woman lands on the ground a few feet in front of them. They stumble away from her as she wobbles to her feet, blonde hair messy and tangled where it hangs in front of her face.

“You,” she says, eyes on Cas. “Filth.”

Cas pulls Dean away from her, grip tight on his arm. 

“Sera,” he says.

“I should kill you,” she says. She looks at Dean and says, “I’ll kill you slow, after we’re done with you.”

“I don’t want to hurt you, sister,” Cas says.

Sera doesn’t look at him, keeps her eyes on Dean as she struggles to stand up straight. There’s blood down the front of her blouse, untucked, the hem frayed, and a tear in the thigh of her pants, her shoes scuffed with dirt.

“This is your fault,” she says, taking a wobbly step forward.

“Stay where you are,” Cas warns.

“He was supposed to win,” Sera says. “He was supposed to defeat the Serpent and bring paradise, but you and your brother—”

A flash of silver drops from her sleeve and she lunges, catching Dean’s cheek with the edge of her blade. He feels his skin tear, a sharp, searing pain, and stumbles back, cups his cheek. 

Cas moves in a blur, pulls his blade from the back of his jeans and rams it into her chest, hard. Sera’s eyes go wide, breath catching as she claws at him, fingers scrabbling for a hold on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he says, quiet, before yanking his arm back and pulling his blade free.

Sera collapses backwards, insides flaring before she hits the ground. Dean throws his arm over his eyes, ducks his head against the explosion of grace that sets him and Cas back on their feet, makes his ears ring and the air shift around them. The ground on either side of Sera’s body sizzles, her wing prints stretching out across the pavement, the smell of burnt dirt heavy in the air. 

Dean reaches forward and grabs Cas’s arm. Cas loosens his grip on his blade, blood dripping down his hand, leaving dots in the dirt. He turns around and looks at Dean.

“Are you hurt?” he asks.

“Nah, she just nicked me.” Dean touches his cheek, the skin smooth, whole. He pulls his hand back, frowns at the blood on his fingers. “Huh. Or not.”

“We should go,” Cas says, tucking his blade away. “Before more show up.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, and wipes the blood off on his jeans.


	3. Chapter 3

Driving south puts them towards Okie territory. Dean points Baby to the west, towards the panhandle, and the quickest way to cross the state lines into Texas.

The vegetation slowly starts to build back up again the further from Stull they get, and soon they’re driving through farmland, past wheat and corn and tall clumps of trees. They pass through a small town that’s still without power, the shops closed and the streets deserted.

“This isn’t ominous at all,” Dean says.

They find the locals a minute later. Cars and trucks cram into the church parking lot, so full it bleeds out onto the main street and down the side roads. A man walks out from between two cars and Dean slams on the brakes. The man waves at him, then keeps walking towards the open church doors, to where a crowd has gathered.

“Yeah, good luck praying this one away, pal,” Dean says. Cas doesn’t say anything, just watches out his window.

Dean keeps following the main road out of town, the houses spreading apart again, making room for more fields. The wind rolls in hot through the open windows. They drive past a sign for a diner with an arrow pointing ahead, and soon enough they find it, the sign poking out from the trees on the side of the road, a gravel turn-off into the parking lot. It whizzes by in a blur.

“Wait—Dean, stop,” Cas says.

“What?” Dean asks, glancing at him. “Why?”

“That diner had power,” Cas says.

Dean pulls the Impala over to the shoulder, wheels crunching the gravel and kicking up dust as he turns around. The sign looms, tall and proud, over the road: _STUMPY’S DINER._

///

It’s a small building, barely more than a shack, with a few vehicles parked out front. The open sign in the window blinks on and off. Dean parks the Impala at the far end of the lot, closest to the treeline, and together he and Cas make their way to the door.

It’s stuffy inside, the lights dim and the overhead fans turning slowly, moving hot air around and doing not much else. A few tables are occupied, stragglers from town who probably gave up on finding God a long time ago.

A young waiter makes his way towards them, menus and a pitcher of water in hand, just as there’s a crackle above them.

The kid stops, him and the patrons looking up as static comes out of the ceiling speakers. It clears enough for music to leak through, faded, going in and out, a slow guitar and harmonica and a man saying, “ _Lord have mercy, something keeps on worrying me. I know he's around here somewhere—_ ”

“Huh,” the kid says, frowning at the ceiling. “That’s weird. Hasn’t been working for weeks.”

Dean shifts, rubs at his arms, feels goosebumps. He left his coat back in the car. Cas eyes him but Dean ignores him, clears his throat to get the waiter’s attention.

“You got a table for us?” he asks.

The static swallows up the music again, pulls the voice and the guitar into its depths. The kid shakes his head in confusion and looks at them.

“Yeah,” he says. “Here, just in the corner there. That okay?”

“Hey, if you’re willing to feed us, we’ll sit anywhere,” Dean says.

The kid hands them both a menu and fills up their glasses with ice water, tells them his name is Paul, and to wave him over if they need anything.

“One thing,” Dean says and Paul stops, waits. Dean gestures around them and asks, “How’d you guys get power?”

Paul shrugs. “No idea. Stumpy—the owner—he thinks maybe we’re on a separate grid, or something. But I’m not gonna go looking for teeth, y’know?”

“Yeah,” Dean says. Paul raps his knuckles on the table and gives them a smile before heading back to the kitchen.

He still feels a little sick from Stull, not really hungry, but he looks at the menu anyway, if only for something to do. He decides on his usual bacon cheeseburger and folds the menu back up, sets it aside.

“What are you gonna get?” he asks. 

Cas doesn’t look at him. Dean watches him for a minute, taps his fingers against the table, but Cas doesn’t move, just keeps staring at the overhead speaker. Dean reaches forward and snaps his fingers under his nose.

“Yo,” he says. “Major Tom, you reading?”

Cas shakes himself out of it and looks at him. “What?” 

Dean frowns at him. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” Cas says. 

“You sure?”

Cas sighs. “Yes, Dean. I’m sure.”

“All right, sorry.” Dean holds his hands up. “Geez, what’s got your panties in a twist?”

Cas looks at him, mouth tight, then away again. He picks up his menu.

“Nothing,” he says. He opens his menu and says, “It’s not important.”

///

The farmland gets flatter the further south they drive.

Cas drinks cheap coffee and picks through a bag of barbecue-flavor peanuts, dusting his fingers off every now and then, wiping the powder on his jeans. He eats them slow and avoids Dean’s eye, doesn’t say anything when _Zeppelin IV_ flips over again. The stars burn bright through holes in the clouds.

After two more hours of driving through the dark with no sign of life, Dean cuts Baby’s headlights and eases down a gravel sideroad that leads into a field, empty save for a lone windmill. 

Cas sits up and glances around. “What are we doing?” 

Dean shuts off the engine and pockets his keys. “Stopping for the night.”

“If you want me to take over—” 

“It’s fine, Cas,” Dean says. “I mean, we don’t even really know where we’re going.”

“I thought we were going south.” 

“Yeah,” Dean says. He grabs his jacket out of the back, bunches it up in a ball. “That’s not much to go on.” 

“You’re the one who suggested it,” Cas mutters. 

Dean looks at him. “Dude, seriously. Are you okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine. I’m just—” Cas sighs. “It’s nothing, I’m just tired.”

He grabs his things and gets out of the car, moves into the back seat where there’s more room. The car rocks under the movement, the metal ticking as it cools. The smell of dusty farmland drifts in from the open windows.

Shifting into the passenger seat, Dean shoves his jacket against the door, leans back against it and stretches his legs out. He folds his arms across his chest and listens to the crickets, watches thunderheads gather in the distance, electricity in the air. Cas fiddles with the radio behind him, volume low as he searches through static. 

Finally, Dean breaks. “Hey, Cas?”

“Mm?” The radio dial ticks quietly as Cas turns it. 

“What happened to you?” Dean asks. “When I was—I mean, before all this.” 

Cas stays quiet for a moment, long enough that Dean glances over the back of the seat to make sure he hasn’t fallen asleep. Cas glances up at him, quick, before he goes back to the radio. 

“I… drifted,” he says, slow, like he’s testing the words. “And lost myself, a bit. I think the expression is, uh. ‘Hit rock bottom’?”

Dean watches him. Cas keeps fiddling with the radio. 

“I was drinking a lot,” he says. The radio crackles in his hands, music breaking out of the static for a second before fading again. “Tried to find comfort in people—in things I didn’t care about. I just—I don’t know. I warded myself, hid myself from Heaven, and then I just…” 

“Drifted,” Dean says.

Cas nods. Then he stops fiddling and looks up. “Dean, I’m—I’m sorry.”

Dean frowns. “For what?” 

“I failed you.”

“What?” Dean sits up to look at him. “No you didn’t.” 

“I should have done more to—”

“Hey, cut it out,” Dean snaps. “I mean it. You didn’t fail me. Or anyone. All right?” 

Cas exhales, shaky, and nods. 

He picks the radio up again, wiggles the antenna until the static starts to break into music, the sound of horns and a piano before it crackles again into voices, first a man’s saying, “—was found wandering through Marfa who ‘magically’ healed—”, then a woman who says, “Currently, the death toll is uncertain as widespread power outages—” before fading back into the music. “ _Are the stars out tonight? I don't know if it's cloudy or bright, ‘cause I only have eyes for you, dear._ ”

“Geez, what’s with the old tunes lately?” Dean asks. 

Cas studies him for a moment. He opens his mouth to reply, then thinks better of it. 

“What?” Dean asks. 

Cas shakes his head. “Nothing.”

“If you say so.” Dean leans back against the door, folds his arms against another breeze blowing in from the open window, dust swirling around the car before settling. Lightning flashes in the distance. 

“Wait.” Dean sits up again. “What do you mean by ‘warded’?” 

“Um,” Cas says. “I got a tattoo?” 

Dean snorts. “Bullshit.” 

Cas shrugs and sets the radio aside. 

“Seriously?” Dean asks. Cas looks at him and Dean leans closer. “Can I see it?” 

“No.” 

“C’mon, where is it?” Dean reaches over the back of the seat and playfully tugs at the collar of Cas’s flannel. “Under your shirt?” 

Cas stares at him, face carefully blank, and doesn’t respond.

Dean gives him a look. “In your pants?”

Cas rolls his eyes. “Dean—”

“You’re no fun.” Dean huffs and sinks into the front seat again. 

Cas's resolve falters and his mouth twitches into a smile.

///

The wind blows cold across the graveyard, the sky a dark, swirling mass overhead. Crumbling gravestones stand out of the grass like small islands. Rain splatters against the dust, trickles down the marble, dips into the faded engravings.

The air feels tight against his skin, thin and electric. Somewhere, a woman sings, “ _He would always win the fight—_ ” 

Dean steps over a fallen gravestone, a cracked wing protruding from the ground, and tastes copper in his mouth. When he looks back, the concrete feathers crumble and break apart, blood soaking into the dirt.

“You came.” 

Dean looks up. Sam stares back at him, still dressed in his jeans and canvas jacket and hideous plaid shirt. His hair hangs around his face and he smiles, empty. 

“ _Bang bang, he shot me down—_ ”

Sam lifts his hand and everything goes white.

///

Cold water trickles down his face. Dean gasps and bolts upright, heart pounding and muscles tense as he looks around, tries to get his bearings. A loud rumble sounds overhead, heavy rain pinging off Baby’s hood and blowing in through the windows. Cas shifts in the back seat, eyes closed, half-buried under his coat.

Dean exhales, slow, and wipes his face, tries to stop shaking. 

Next to Cas the radio murmurs, “ _Remember when we used to play? Bang bang, I shot you down—_ ” 

Dean grabs it, fiddles with the dial one-handed, tries to find a weather report as he rolls the windows up enough to keep the rain out. Lightning flashes and a crack of thunder rips through the air, shakes the ground. After a minute of nothing but static, Dean gives up, turns the radio off and tosses it into the back again. 

Cas grunts and sits up, rubs his eyes. “Should we go?” 

“Nah, I think we’re fine,” Dean says. 

Cas nods and yawns, curls back up again. Dean watches the rain streak down the window. 

After a moment, Cas asks, “Are you all right?” 

Dean looks at him. “Huh?” 

“You seem… upset,” Cas says. 

“I’m fine,” Dean says. He swallows and looks back out the window. “Just a weird dream.”

///

“I got good news,” Bobby says, first words out of his mouth. Then he says, “Or bad news. Suppose it all depends on how you look at it.”

“Hit me,” Dean says.

It took driving around three different podunk towns before they managed to find a gas station with both fuel and power, the needle on Baby’s tank teetering dangerously close to empty when they pulled in. Good thing, too, the man behind the cash told them as he bagged their armfuls of junk food, since the pumps were almost dry.

“Whole world’s gone to hell,” he said, and handed Dean his change. 

They sit at a picnic table nestled under a small tree and pick through a bag of chips as Bobby’s voice crackles through the radio speaker. The sun burns hot on the back of Dean’s neck, the dusty breeze doing little to help. 

“Ran into a demon the other day,” Bobby says. “He was looking for Sam.” 

Dean looks up at Cas, who nods towards the radio. Dean hands it over.

“Did the demon say why he wanted Sam?” Cas asks.

“Nope,” Bobby says. “I asked him. He didn’t wanna answer.”

“So what’s the good news?” Dean asks. 

“Well,” Bobby says. “I reckon if there’s demons out lookin’ for him, chances are he’s still alive.” 

“Here’s hoping,” Dean says. ”That’s kinda weird though, right? Demons looking for him—do you think that’s weird?”

“I dunno what to think,” Bobby says. 

Dean taps his fingers on the picnic table, chews his bottom lip. Cas stares off at nothing, gaze distant and far away, lost in thought. Dean nudges his knee. 

“What’s up?” he asks.

“Sera,” Cas says. 

Dean frowns. “The angel at Stull?”

Cas nods. “Do you remember what she said?”

“Uh, something about wanting to kill us?” Dean says. “The usual.”

“Yes, but you—she said ‘after they were done with you’,” Cas says. 

“Okay,” Dean says. “So, what do you think that means?”

Cas opens his mouth, closes it again as he chooses his words. After a moment he says, “I think she was waiting for you.” 

Dean swallows, something too-big settling in his stomach. He picks the radio up again. “Okay. Listen, Bobby. There was an angel at Stull, Cas thinks she was waiting for us—for me. So just—be careful, y’hear? We’ll figure this out.”

“Yeah,” Bobby says, uncertain. “Okay. But don’t do anything stupid.” 

Dean huffs. “C’mon, when have I ever?”

Cas shoots him a look but doesn’t say anything. Dean gives Bobby a quick goodbye before he shuts off the radio, rubs at his eyes. Cas digs out another handful of chips before turning the bag towards Dean. 

“Want any more?” he asks.

Dean glances at it, the open bag a gaping, greasy mouth. “Nah. M’not hungry.”

Cas eyes him as he turns it around again and rolls it closed, the paper crinkling.

///

The camp sits just outside a small town in Randall County, Texas, that’s known for one of its restaurants and not much else.

Vehicles line the parking lot of a small church, and clumps of tents and makeshift shelters spread across the grass. The men and women gathered around a fire pit turn their heads at the sound of the Impala’s engine. The man closest to the road tips the brim of his cap to them, readjusts the weight of the shotgun slung over his arm.

“Is it just me, or do these guys look like hunters?” Dean asks. 

“It’s not just you.” Cas nods towards one of the trucks parked near the back of the lot, away from the road. It’s covered in road dust and grime, but the sigils are clearly visible, red spray paint against rusted white. 

Dean turns the Impala into the lot. Together, he and Cas make their way over to the group. Dean catches a few hands moving closer to gun holsters, a clear warning, and slows his stride, nods to the man with the shotgun. 

“I’m just gonna cut to the chase,” he says. “You a hunter?” 

“Depends on who’s asking,” the man says. The others around him move in closer, ready to act if necessary. 

Dean keeps his distance. “Dean Winchester.” 

The man blinks. “Not John Winchester’s kid?” 

“You knew him?”

“Nah. Heard about him, though. Friend of a friend… of a friend. Something like that.” The man holds out his hand, palm dry and calloused, and says, “Earl Rogers.”

Dean steps forward to shake his hand. Then he points over his shoulder and says, “Cas.” 

Earl shifts his shotgun as he looks Cas over. A woman behind him pushes forward, her dark hair tied back messy, sleeves rolled up to her elbows and dirt on the knees of her jeans. 

“Cas,” she says. “As in Castiel?”

Dean looks at Cas, who frowns and says, “Yes?” 

“So it is true,” she says. 

“What’s true?” Dean asks. 

“I heard stories about you. About how the Winchesters have a pet angel up their sleeve,” she says. “Didn’t believe it for the longest time.”

“Well, I’m not much of an angel anymore,” Cas says.

“I meant no disrespect,” the woman says.

“This is Jane,” Earl says.

Dean shakes her hand. When she reaches for Cas’s, he hesitates, then takes it in his own. She nods to him before stepping back behind Earl. The group watches, quiet, as Earl gestures to the camp. 

“Well, why don’t you sit?” he says. “We’ll have a chat.”


	4. Chapter 4

Once the beer starts flowing, the tension among the group eases, and people split off into smaller packs to talk and play cards and get drunk as the sun sets behind the church.

Dean learns that Earl is the assigned leader of the group. Fifty-two years old, with thirty of those spent hunting things that go bump in the night. He keeps to the southern states, ventures into Mexico on occasion, but it all started with a haunting in his hometown. 

He learns that Jane was discharged from the military when she found out she was pregnant. Eighteen years later, her son went missing on a camping trip up north. When his body was found a week later, it was hanging, mutilated, in the top branches of a redwood five miles away from his campsite. 

“Detectives said it was a cougar,” she says with a hollow laugh. 

They feed them barbecued hot dogs, corn on the cob, and cheap chicken noodle soup out of fire-heated cans. Dean nurses a beer and picks at his food, slow enough that it starts to go cold.

“Group of us met here cuz Willie said he heard about a man who performed miracles at Speedy G’s,” Earl says. 

Dean and Cas exchange a look. 

“Naturally, he suspected somethin’ shady was going down,” Earl says. 

“Naturally.” Dean nods.

“So he came down to check it out. Only, when he got here, there weren’t no miracle man and the town was overrun by demons,” Earl continues. “We were able to exorcise some, save the people they were riding. They’re holed up inside the church so we can keep an eye on ‘em. The other demons took off.”

“Then more hunters started showing up,” Jane says. 

“And the lot of ‘em haven’t seen a wolf or a vamp in weeks—maybe longer,” Earl says. “Seen a helluva lot of demons, though. Few angels, too, here and there. But they’re weak.” 

Under the table, Cas nudges Dean’s knee with his own. Dean doesn’t look at him, keeps his eyes on Earl as he nudges Cas back. He scrapes a spoonful of lukewarm soup out of the can and asks, “So what’s the plan?” 

“Some of us are gonna go out tomorrow,” Jane says. “See if we can track the rest of the demons and bring some families back together. We figure they didn’t go far.”

“That’s a good plan,” Dean says. 

“Think you two could lend a hand?” Earl asks. “Having an angel on our side could prove mighty useful.”

“Uh, well.” Dean swallows his mouthful of food and says, “I mean—we kinda got somewhere we need to—”

“Dean—” Cas says, quiet. Dean looks at him and Cas touches his elbow, moves to stand up. To Jane and Earl he says, “Excuse us for a second.” 

Cas leads him away from the table, away from the noise of rowdy hunters shouting in one of the nearby tents. He stops on the corner of the lot, under a dark street lamp, the gravel crunching under his shoes.

“We should stay,” Cas says. 

“Dude, there’s like, twenty hunters here,” Dean says. “I think they got it under control.” 

“Dean, we don’t know where we’re going,” Cas says. “But if we go with them, we can find a demon, trap it, and make it talk. We can ask it about Sam.”

Right. Driving south with no real plan can only work for so long. Eventually they’ll run out of road. 

“Okay,” Dean says. “Yeah. That—that might work. You got a plan?” 

“I think so,” Cas says.

///

Earl points them to a spare “tent” around the side of the church where the crowd thins out and someone’s set up a table for washing up. Really, it’s two tarps slung over a low-hanging branch, an old bed sheet covering the burnt grass, and a few thin blankets to sleep under. But it’s better than being crammed into the front seat of the Impala.

Dean’s digging the bedrolls out of the car when the church door opens and a young woman steps out, blonde hair curling over her shoulders, bare feet covered in dust. She carries a bowl towards the washing table and sets it down under the tap. Dean shuts the trunk and wanders over. 

“Hi,” he says. The woman startles and Dean holds up his hands. “Sorry—I didn’t mean to scare you.” 

“It’s fine, you didn’t. I’m just a bit jumpy,” the woman says. 

Dean holds out his hand. “I’m Dean.” 

“Haley,” she says, her hand smooth and warm, small inside his. She looks him over. 

In any other circumstance, Dean would flash her a grin, pay that extra bit of attention that usually gets a phone number in his pocket. But when he lets her hand go, any heat that’s there isn’t strong enough to linger.

“You’re from town, right?” he asks. 

Haley nods. “Born and raised.” 

“So… were you…?” 

Haley shifts uncomfortably. “Not for long. I was one of the last ones before these guys showed up.”

“Do you remember anything?”

Haley thinks for a moment. “Just—dark. There was this weird energy and—I guess it felt like sleepwalking, a little. You’re kinda in between awake and not, and you feel yourself moving but you’re not doing it.” 

Dean nods. “Do you have any idea what they wanted?”

“I think they were looking for something,” Haley says. “But—I don’t know for sure.”

“What about the man performing miracles at the diner?” Dean asks. 

“Oh, that?” Haley says. “Dollie’s full of shit, if you ask me. She is—was—my coworker. She said this homeless man came in, asked for a cup of coffee. But he couldn’t pay, right? So he offers to heal her sprained wrist.”

“And did he?” Dean asks.

Haley shrugs. “Dollie pulled stunts to get out of work all the time. I don’t think it was ever sprained to begin with. I didn’t see it, though. I wasn’t working that day. Sorry.”

“No, no,” Dean says. “That’s great. And um—me too. Sorry, I mean. About what happened.”

Haley gives him a small smile and turns back to the water container. Dean shifts his bag over his shoulder and starts to leave when Haley turns around again. 

“Are you one of them?” she asks. 

Dean stops, looks at her. “One of what?” 

“The hunters,” Haley says. 

“Yeah,” Dean says. “Kinda.” 

“My uncle’s still out there,” Haley says. “Brett Howard. You’d recognize him, his eyes are different colors. One blue and one brown. If you find him, even if he’s—I just want to know.” 

Dean nods. “I’ll do my best.”

///

“Here.” Dean tosses Cas his duffel. “Might wanna use that as a pillow.”

Cas sets the radio aside and sits up, arranges his bag behind him before reclining against it. He stretches his legs out, crosses them at the ankle, and picks the radio back up.

It’s cramped inside the tent, smells of plastic tarp and dry grass, muggy with body heat. Dean pulls his flannel off and undoes his belt, shoves them both in his bag before he stretches out next to Cas in just a t-shirt and jeans. He leaves his boots on—more for an easy getaway than courtesy. 

“So, what d’you think?” he asks. “Think some low-rank angels got caught up in the prizefight?”

“Maybe,” Cas says. “If Heaven’s in chaos their connection to the host might not be as strong. If angels are weak or injured, they might need to heal in different ways.”

“So, what?” Dean reaches behind himself to readjust his duffel. “They come down to Earth and peddle their powers in exchange for a cheeseburger?”

Cas shrugs. 

“Huh,” Dean says. He settles down onto his bedroll and closes his eyes. 

Cas fiddles in silence for a few minutes before he sighs. “I’m still not used to it.” 

Dean opens his eyes, looks at him. “Used to what?” 

“Having to eat,” Cas says. “Getting thirsty. Falling asleep, especially.” 

Dean rolls onto his side, leans up on his elbow to look down at Cas, who keeps twisting the radio dials. The fabric of his hoodie tickles Dean’s arm as he searches station after station of static. On the other side of the camp someone drunkenly sings “What’s New, Pussycat?”. 

“How’re you doing, anyway?” Dean asks. 

“I’m fine,” Cas says. 

Dean huffs. “C’mon.” 

Cas looks at him, quiet for moment. “Well, I’m alive. I guess that counts for something.”

“I’d say so.”

Cas turns back to the radio, frowns when his sleeve gets caught on a dial. He scowls and untangles it, yanks his sleeves down to his elbows, rougher than necessary. Dean’s mouth twitches and he looks away, tries to hide his laugh behind a cough. 

Cas pauses. “What?” 

“Nothing,” Dean says. The radio’s static starts to break, the sound of a slow fiddle fighting to get through. Dean clears his throat, lightly plucks at the sleeve of Cas’s hoodie. “Just—you’re different, is all.” 

“Am I?” Cas asks. He starts fiddling again, turns the dial carefully between his fingers, the static clearing around a woman’s voice, “ _Love me or leave me and let me be lonely._ ” 

“It’s not a bad thing,” Dean says. 

“Funny.” Cas lets go of the dial. “I distinctly remember you telling me not to change.” 

“Yeah, well,” Dean says. “Doesn’t count if it’s for the better.” 

Cas sets the radio down and finally turns to look at him. 

“Is it?” he asks.

Dean frowns. “Is it what?” 

“For the better?” Cas asks. Then, “I’m useless. I’m powerless. I’m—I’m angry. At you, at myself, at—how is that good?” 

Dean chews on his words a moment. “Beats being a good little soldier.” 

“All you’ve ever been is a good little soldier,” Cas says. There’s no bite to it, but it still stings, still digs deep under the skin. 

Dean swallows, nods. He rolls onto his back without another word, stares up at the tarp. After a moment, Cas reaches for the radio—“ _There’ll be no one else unless that someone is you. I intend to be independently blue_ ”—and switches it off, the tent falling into silence.

///

Earl rounds them up in the morning by banging a wooden spoon against a rusted cowbell. Dean wakes with a face full of tarp and his back turned to Cas, and less aches and pains than expected after a night sleeping on the hard ground. They throw on their coats and wander into the crisp morning air, a thin sheet of fog rising off the distant fields.

Breakfast consists of beans, eggs, and toast cooked in a pan, grainy coffee, and pulpy Minute Maid orange juice raided from a gas station on the other side of town. Hunters gather together at picnic tables and around their trucks, everyone quiet and subdued, the air tense. 

Jane finds them sitting under a tree, drinking coffee from tin cans and picking shell pieces out of their eggs. 

“Guess you boys are with me,” she says. 

“Lucky us,” Dean says. 

“We’re gonna go east and split up into smaller groups. There’s some farms outside of town,” Jane says. “If you find any demons, restrain them and bring them back here. We wanna save as many lives as we can, so try not to damage the bodies.”

“Sure,” Dean says. 

Jane nods. “Finish up and meet in the parking lot in fifteen.” 

She wanders away to find another group to herd together. Dean gives up on his eggs and dumps them in the grass. Beside him, Cas exhales, slow, and lets his head thump back against the tree. 

“I think you should go without me,” he says. 

Dean frowns at him. “What?” 

“I’ll just hold you back.” 

“Cas, c’mon. Don’t start this shit.”

Cas looks at him, mouth tight. “You’re a better shot than I am.”

“And you’re a helluva lot better with a knife than I am,” Dean says. “You’re not useless, Cas. Okay? I trust you way more than any of these mooks.”

Cas just drinks from his tin and stares out across the parking lot.

“Look,” Dean says. “I get it. It’s not easy going from Superman to Average Joe. But I got your back, man. You know that, right?” 

When Cas doesn’t respond, Dean nudges his shoulder. Cas looks at him. 

“Trust me,” Dean says. “You got this.”

Cas sighs, then nods. “All right.”

///

Shaun Hogins, a tall, thin man in his early forties, hails from Oklahoma and was born with a wide smile, unashamed of the gap between his two front teeth. He drives a forest green hooptie that’s more rust than paint. The cap on the back, bent out of shape and dented from hailstones, used to be home to satellite dishes and radios and equipment used for chasing twisters back in the ‘90’s. Now, it covers guns and salt bags and jugs of holy water.

He follows them to the farm outside town that Jane circled on the map, an old red house tucked away at the end of a long dirt road with potholes the size of kiddie pools. The mailbox at the end of the driveway swings on two bicycle chains and reads “ _THE MARSTONS._ ” 

It’s an easy enough job on paper: find demons, capture them, bring them back to camp for an exorcism. But the ropes Shaun brings to tie the demons up—already soaked in holy water—are old and rotting, frayed in the middle, and Cas’s grace can no longer keep demons away. 

Holding his angel blade against Shaun’s neck, Cas’s eyes flash black as he turns to Dean and says, “Hey there, handsome.”

“Cas—” Dean tries, but he’s got his hands full with another demon, who knees him hard in the leg and sends him buckling to the floor. She unwraps the frayed ropes from her wrists and kicks him in the stomach. 

Dean grabs at her leg and yanks her down onto the ground next to him. She screams, teeth bared, nails scratching at his face as he pins her down with his knees. He pulls the demon knife from his coat and slams it into her chest, feels the teeth grind against bone as he twists and yanks it out. 

He looks up just in time to see Shaun elbow Cas in the chest, hard enough to knock him back, and grab the angel blade out of his hand. 

“Wait!” Dean shouts, pulls himself off the floor just as Shaun rams the blade into Cas’s side. The demon inside Cas screams, eyes flashing red as it sparks out, and Cas stumbles backwards into a stall door. 

“I had to,” Shaun says, just as a third demon jumps down from the rafters and knocks him to the ground, Cas’s blade skittering across the cement floor. Shaun struggles, kicks up at the demon, useless as it pulls out a piece of metal and slices it across his throat. Shaun gurgles and claws at his neck, blood leaking between his fingers.

The demon stands and turns to Dean. 

“Finally, we’re alone,” he says, and throws Dean into a wall. 

Dean grunts, struggles against the force holding him, a heavy weight on his chest. The demon kicks Shaun’s leg as he passes, snorts a laugh at him, and slowly makes his way to where he’s got Dean pinned against the wall. Dean swallows, tightens his grip on his knife. 

“We figured you’d show up eventually,” the demon says, stopping in front of him. “Poor predictable Dean. You really should get a new act, these reruns are getting a little boring.” 

“Go to hell,” Dean snarls. 

The demon looks down at the piece of metal in his hand, then back up at Dean, at his neck. He grins and says, “Not until I get what I came for.” 

The demon screams and there’s a flash of light as an angel blade rips through its mouth. The weight on Dean’s chest disappears and he falls to the ground in a heap. Insides flaring, the demon chokes, and his eyes flash back to normal—one blue and one brown—just before he falls to the ground, dead.

Cas’s blade clatters to the floor. He grabs at his side and collapses, his shirt soaked through with blood. Dean rushes over, lands hard on his knees next to him. Cas reaches for him, grabs at the front of his jacket, his face pale and eyes wide as he struggles to catch his breath. 

“Hey hey hey, it’s okay, you’re okay,” Dean says. He reaches for Cas’s shirt, gets his blood on his hands, and says, “I’m gonna look, okay? I’m just gonna look.” 

“Dean—” Cas swallows, his grip weakening. 

Dean lifts his shirt, finds the wound in his side. It’s deep and messy, still gushing blood that trickles down his ribs, covers the ink of his tattoo. Dean’s stomach turns. He closes his eyes and tries to breathe, his hands shaking. 

“Fuck—okay. It’s not that bad,” he says. “Cas—buddy, hey. It’s not that bad.” 

Cas opens his mouth, tries to say something. 

“Don’t talk,” Dean says. He slips out of his coat, rips a sleeve off his flannel and bunches it into a ball, presses it gently over the wound and moves Cas’s hand over it. “Keep pressure on that. Can you do that for me? I’m gonna find something to put you on and get you outta here. Just stay awake, okay?” 

“Dean—” Cas tries again, breath rattling. “I can’t—”

“I said don’t talk!” Dean snaps. “Just—hang on. I got you, Cas. You’re fine.” 

Cas exhales and his grip goes slack, hand thumping against Dean’s leg as it falls to the ground, heavy. Cas’s breathing goes still. 

“No no no no no—Cas, dammit!” Dean grabs his shoulders and shakes him. When that doesn’t work, he reaches up, cups Cas’s face to lift his head. Cas doesn’t move. 

Dean swears, voice echoing through the barn, and pushes his hands against Cas’s chest, grips the front of his t-shirt. 

“Come on,” he grits out. “You do not get to die on me, you stupid son of a bitch.” 

Something cold flutters in his chest. It spreads outwards, down his arms, his wrists. It moves through his veins, liquid smooth, and leaks into his palms, the tips of his fingers. His skin buzzes and prickles like static. Like a hum. 

Dean holds his breath and looks down at his hands. The air in the barn tightens, closes in around him, makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

Cas’s chest heaves under Dean’s palms. With a loud gasp, he jerks forward, the force knocking Dean backwards. Cas coughs and retches, leans over to vomit onto the floor. Dean scrambles to his feet, dizzy and light-headed, his knees threatening to give out.

Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Cas says, “That was unpleasant.”

“What—” Dean’s voice cracks. He swallows and tries again. “What the hell just happened?” 

Cas touches his side, then reaches down and pulls his t-shirt up to his ribs. Under the blood, his skin is smooth and whole, no sign of a stab wound. 

He drops his t-shirt and looks up at Dean. “You healed me.”


	5. Chapter 5

They pile the bodies into the back of Shaun’s truck and throw an old horse blanket over them. Cas digs the keys out of Shaun’s pocket and looks down at them in his palm. 

“Hey,” Dean says, touching his arm. “You don’t have to—we can ride back together. I’ll tell the others and I can bring them back here.” 

“No.” Cas folds his fingers around the keys. “I want to bring them back.” 

The trip back feels longer than the drive out. Dean keeps the music off and the windows down, feels the warm wind against his bare arms, what’s left of his flannel shirt balled up in the passenger seat next to him. 

The others notice something off when they return. A few people crowd around Cas when he gets out of the truck, and Dean takes the keys from him, wanders off to find Jane. Her face falls when she sees him.

“We brought the bodies back,” Dean says. “I didn’t think it was right to leave them there.” 

Jane nods, and Dean hands her the keys to Shaun’s truck.

///

It’s dim inside the church. Rows of candles line the walls, casting an orange glow on the makeshift beds that litter the pews, on the piles of bags and personal belongings. The crowd is small, made up of people who are still waiting to hear news about their missing loved ones, or have nowhere else to go.

He spots Haley sitting in a pew near the front, leaning against the back as she talks to a young man and two teenaged girls, who laugh at something she says. Dean’s heart hammers in his chest as he walks over. The young man notices, nods to him, and Haley turns around. 

“Dean,” she says. 

“Hi,” he says. “Um. Can we talk?” 

Her friends excuse themselves and Haley gestures for Dean to sit next to her. He hesitates before he does, folding his hands between his knees. He’s never been good at this; letting people down was always Sam’s area of expertise. 

“What’s up?” Haley asks. 

“It’s about your uncle,” Dean says. 

Haley pauses. “What about him?”

Dean stares down at his hands, at the dried blood under his nails.

“Dean…”

He shakes his head. “I’m sorry.”

Haley nods and looks away. Dean doesn’t say anything, and after a moment Haley reaches up to wipe at her eyes before looking at him again.

“Thank you for telling me,” she says. 

Dean looks at her. She gives him a thin smile.

“Guess that means I can finally get out of here, huh?” she says. 

“You gonna be okay?” he asks. 

“Yeah,” she says. “Eventually.” 

“Y’know, sticking around might help,” Dean says. He gestures to the others in the church, to the small groups clustered together. “At least you got friends here.”

Haley looks over at the young man and the two girls. “That’s true.”

The door to the back room opens and a man walks out, a woman clinging to his arm. A few rows behind them, a little boy cries, “Mommy!” 

Dean turns around, watches the boy jump out of the pew and race up the aisle. His mother lets go of the man and runs down the steps, her arms open wide to scoop the boy off the floor. Another man hurries over, reaches for her, and she pulls him in for a hug. 

“The McEwens,” Haley says. “Sandra was one of the first possessed.” 

Dean nods towards the man still standing at the back of the church, his hands clasped in front of him. “Who’s that?” 

“Father Laird,” Haley says. 

Dean catches the man’s eye. The man nods in return. 

“Will you excuse me?” Dean asks, and eases himself out of the pew. 

Father Laird extends his hand as Dean approaches. “You’re one of the hunters from the camp outside.”

“Yeah. Dean.” He shakes his hand. “Listen, Padre. I don’t wanna overstep, but I need a favor.”

“What can I do for you?”

“Are there still people possessed?” Dean asks.

Father Laird nods. “There’s a few I haven’t gotten to yet. The families sometimes have questions afterwards. I like to answer them before I move on to the next.” 

“Great,” Dean says, and Father Laird raises an eyebrow. “Uh—could I maybe talk to one of them?”

Father Laird hesitates, studies him for a moment. “I’m… not sure what good that would do. The victims aren’t in control of their bodies, they won’t be able to answer—”

“No no, not the meatsuit,” Dean says. “One of the demons. I need to talk to a demon.”

///

Craig O’Brien has nicotine-stained teeth, a finger missing on his right hand, and a glass ball where his right eye should be. He’s fit for his age despite the beer gut, having worked the family farm since he was a boy. He quit smoking ten years ago, Father Laird says, loves baseball, and he always waved to people when he drove by on his tractor. He’s the type of guy Dean would probably shoot the shit with over a beer at the local watering hole.

The thing that grins up at him from where it’s been tied to a wooden chair is not Craig O’Brien. It flashes black eyes at him, wiggles in its seat like an excited cat with a toy, and all but purrs. “There he is. Dean Winchester.”

“Christ, what’s with the fanclub today?” Dean asks. 

The demon flicks its eyes back to normal, tilts its head at him. “It’s an honor. Truly.”

Dean pulls the demon knife out of his coat, tilts it so the metal glints against the candle light, so the demon can see the red smudge of dried blood. The demon glances at it, then looks back up at him. 

“You gonna prick me with your little poker?” it asks. 

“Maybe. If you don’t put out.”

The demon laughs, the sound hollow and full of smoke. “Last I heard, your torturing days are over. That you get all squeamish. We both know you don’t have it in you.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Dean says. 

The demon’s smile falters slightly, barely noticeable. It takes up the cocky bravado act again, and asks, “Yeah? Why’s that?”

Dean pulls a flask out of his back pocket, unscrews the cap. The demon watches as he pours holy water over the blade, the water dripping off the teeth and onto the floor, onto his boots. 

“Because one of your buddies killed my friend,” Dean says. 

He grabs the demon’s face and digs the tip of the knife into the skin just under its left eye. The demon screams as its skin sizzles, fights against its restraints, a drop of blood dripping down its cheek. 

“You hurt me, you hurt the meatpuppet,” the demon sneers. “You okay with that?” 

Dean grabs the demon’s chin, forces its mouth open. “Say ‘ah’.” 

The demon struggles as Dean pours holy water down its throat, smoke rising out from between its teeth. It coughs and gags, shudders against the ropes. 

“We can do this the easy way or the fun way,” Dean says, recapping the flask. “Your call.”

“What do you want?” the demon spits. 

“Why are demons looking for Sam?” Dean asks.

The demon snorts. “Were you dropped on your head as a baby?” 

Dean plays with the flask cap and the demon twitches. 

“We’re not looking for Sam,” it says. “We’re looking for Lucifer.” 

Dean frowns. “Lucifer’s gone.” 

The demon rolls its eyes. “I thought you Winchesters were supposed to be smart. I gotta say, you’re not really living up to the hype.” 

“I _will_ drown you in this,” Dean says, holding up the flask again.

“C’mon, Dean. Don’t pretend you don’t feel it,” the demon says. “That little tingle of power just underneath your skin.” 

Dean grits his teeth. “I dunno what you’re talking about.”

The demon laughs again. “How is it then, if my buddy killed Castiel, that your angel’s walking around outside right now, shootin’ the shit with the Merry Band of Hunters?” 

Dean swallows. The demon flashes its eyes at him.

“The Michael Sword,” it says. “I can’t believe I ran into a celebrity. My friends downstairs aren’t gonna believe this.”

The demon grins, then lets out a loud roar, a black plume bursting out of Craig O’Brien’s mouth. Dean swears and watches, helpless, as the smoke disappears through the floor vents.

///

Cas looks up when Dean opens the flap to the tent. Their eyes meet and Dean pauses in the doorway, scratches at his thumbnail, bits of dry blood coming out in flecks. It’s cool after sunset, the dry wind biting at his bare arms.

“Dean—what is it?” Cas asks, sitting up. 

“Uh,” Dean says. He points to the camp behind him and says, “They’re holding a funeral. We’re invited.” 

“Oh,” Cas says. 

“I need a shirt,” Dean says. Cas hands him his duffel bag. 

It’s a calm night. The locals bring out candles from the church, lead the crowd to the small cemetery around the side. There’s three fresh holes near the back: one for Haley’s uncle, one for the demon Dean killed, and one for a meatsuit that didn’t survive the exorcism. A pyre for Shaun sits off to the side.

Father Laird gives the eulogy as Earl and Jane light the pyre and the other hunters lower the bodies into their graves. Cas is quiet beside him, head bent in respect, and Dean tries not to think about how it should be two pyres instead of one. That, somehow, it isn’t. Slowly, he reaches down, touches Cas’s hand with the back of his fingers. Cas touches him back, feather-light against his knuckles. 

The hunters gather around a bonfire after to spill whiskey and share embarrassing stories about Shaun’s travels. Everyone speaks fondly of him, a well-liked man, their sadness ringing loud and clear under their laughter. 

Dean excuses himself early and heads back to the tent, feeling bone-heavy and drained. He hears the rustle of the flap a few minutes later as Cas slips in behind him, still holding one of the candles from the funeral.

“Are you all right?” he asks. 

Dean rolls over to look at him. Cas changed out of his bloody flannel, his ruined t-shirt. Still, Dean says, “I should be asking you that.” 

Cas sits down on the blanket and sets the candle aside. “I spoke with Mr. O’Brien. He told me what happened.”

“Demon wouldn’t talk,” Dean says. “It smoked out on its own.” 

“It said they were looking for Lucifer?” Cas asks.

“Yeah,” Dean says. Then he snorts. “Fat lotta good that’s gonna do them.” 

Cas tucks his hands between his knees, fingers twisting together, and watches him for a moment, expression soft. Dean shifts awkwardly on his bedroll, and Cas gives him a small, tired smile.

“Thank you,” he says.

Dean blinks at him. “For what?”

“For saving me.”

“I didn’t.”

“Dean—”

“It was just a fluke, Cas. Okay? You had some leftover juice and it just—I dunno. Whammied you back, or something.” Dean rolls over again, turns his back on him, rearranges his duffel bag under his head and closes his eyes. “Now I’m beat, so if you don’t mind…” 

After a moment of uncomfortable silence, Cas finally moves behind him, pulls at his blanket and crawls under. He blows out the candle, the tent falling into darkness, and says, “Whatever you say.”

///

The morning brings a thick layer of cool fog that hangs over the town. It digs under Dean’s skin as he pours himself a second mug of coffee to melt some of the exhaustion off his bones. Everyone is either hungover or buried in their own thoughts, the emotions funerals tend to drag up.

“Where you two headin’?” Earl asks over the rim of his chipped Biggersons mug. 

“South,” Dean says. 

“What’s south?” 

Dean shakes his head. “Dunno yet.”

Earl nods. “Well, whatever it is, I hope you find it.” 

Dean taps his mug to Earl’s. He looks around, tries to spot Cas in the crowd. He disappeared after breakfast, said he was going to clean up, but the washing table’s empty and the jug’s in desperate need of a refill. 

Dean turns back to Earl. “You seen Cas?” 

Earl shakes his head. “Not since he was with you.”

“Huh,” Dean says. He swallows another mouthful of coffee and sets his mug down, pulls himself off the ground and dusts the back of his jeans. He gives Earl a nod and heads deeper into camp.

A handful of hunters have already left town. A few more have their packs piled outside their tents, ready to go. Dean gives Jane a wave as he passes, and spots Cas as he turns the corner. 

Stretched out on top of a picnic table, Cas stares up at the sky as a woman leans over his bare chest, her red, curly hair tied back in a bun. She touches his shoulder with a gloved hand and grabs a needle with the other. Ink trails all the way up her arms, flowers and snakes and fish, all in bright colors. 

Dean pauses, watches for a moment as the woman dips the needle into ink before touching it to Cas’s skin, the needle buzzing. Finally, he steps forward, asks, “What’s going on?”

Cas looks up at him. “Leah’s giving me a tattoo.” 

The woman—Leah—glances at him, gives him a nod and says, “Hey.” 

Dean waves, looks back at Cas. “Of what?” 

“Anti-possession sigil,” Cas says. He winces as Leah scratches the ink in. “I figured, after yesterday, I should probably protect myself better.” 

“Sure,” Dean says. Leah moves her hand over Cas’s shoulder, careful, shifts to get a better angle. There’s no mark on Cas’s skin. No scratch or scar, no sign at all that he was stabbed, that he bled out under Dean’s hands. 

Cas catches him looking. “I won’t be long.”

“Yeah,” Dean says. “Okay.”

He grabs their bags out of the tent, throws them into the trunk of the car. He drinks more bad coffee out of a tin mug as he waits, leans against Baby’s door, hot against his back. 

Cas finds him not long after, still shirtless as he makes his way over, skin sunkissed and warm in the morning light, new tattoo dark under his collarbone. Dean swallows a mouthful of too-hot coffee as Cas shakes his t-shirt out and pulls it over his head, messes his hair up in the process. 

He takes the mug from Dean, their fingers brushing, and downs the last gulp, wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. Dean doesn’t say anything, just pulls his keys out of his pocket and unlocks his door. 

Cas frowns at him. “Is everything okay?” 

“I’m fine,” Dean says, not looking at him as he pulls the door open. 

Cas hesitates a moment, shifts in his shoes, opens his mouth like he wants to say something. Dean slips into the driver’s seat and Cas tosses the empty mug into the back.

///

The land dries up the further south they drive. They pass a second camp set up in front of a diner on the outskirts of civilization, lights still shining bright with the city a powerless backdrop behind it, and kick up dust on the back roads.

Dean fidgets in his seat, feels Cas glancing at him every now and then like he wants to say something. Dean ignores him, keeps his eyes on the road, almost sighs in relief when Cas gets bored of him and grabs his radio from the back. It’s short-lived. 

After only a few minutes of fighting with static, Cas apparently finds what he’s looking for: some tinny program that sounds like it’s being broadcast out of a phonebooth off the freeway. A man and a woman discuss the power outages, the weird weather, and Dean tunes it out until the woman says, “Speaking of magic—”

“We finally got word about the so-called ‘wandering healer’,” the man says. 

Cas turns the volume up and Dean grits his teeth, digs his nails into the wheel. 

“That’s right. Last report put him up in north Texas,” the woman says. “But recently, a man from Eden said a homeless man came into his diner, and when he couldn’t pay for lunch, he offered to heal him instead.” 

“That kinda sounds like a bad Bible joke,” the man says. “A man with magic healing powers walks into Eden…”

“The hell is this?” Dean asks. 

“A news station Leah told me about,” Cas says. 

“Well, turn it off.” 

“Dean—”

“Cas,” Dean warns. Cas looks at him, eyes hard and jaw set. 

“We need to talk about this,” he says. 

“There’s nothing to talk about.” 

“Dean,” Cas tries again. “You need to consider the possibility—”

“I don’t need to consider shit, okay?” Dean says. “What happened—that was all you. It was a fluke. So shut up about it and just be grateful that you’re still alive.” 

“I wasn’t ‘still alive’, Dean,” Cas snaps. “I was dead.”

The copper tang smell, the death-rattle sound of Cas’s breathing hits him hard, and Dean tries to push it away, to fight it. Feels blood, warm and sticky, against his fingers. 

He pulls the car over on the gravel shoulder, pebbles pinging off the undercarriage, and gets out, slamming the door behind him. Gut turning and nails digging into his palms, Dean walks away, his breath catching in his throat. The passenger door creaks open behind him.

“Even if I was at full power, even if I could heal myself”—Cas calls out to him—“I still couldn’t bring myself back from the dead.”

Dean exhales, slow, closes his eyes. The sun beats down on him, hot and unforgiving. Under the anger, the bubbling, sick feeling in his stomach, he feels it. Something liquid-cool and electric that he’s tried to bury since he woke up in that wheat field outside Talmage. 

He turns around, boots grinding on the ground. Cas watches him from behind the passenger door, sun bright on his face, dry wind teasing his hair. Dean swallows, takes a step back towards the car. 

“So what, Michael’s still hitching a ride, and he decided to heal you out of the goodness of his douchebag, archangel…” Dean gestures to him. “Whatever the hell it is you have where a heart’s supposed to be?”

“No,” Cas says. “Michael’s gone, Dean. You’d feel it if he wasn’t.”

Dean stops next to Baby’s front bumper. “But you think that I—that I healed you.”

“I don’t think,” Cas says. “I know.”

Dean laughs, short and humorless, shakes his head.

Cas shuts the passenger door, comes to stand in front of him and holds his eye, steady, as he pulls his blade out of the back of his jeans. With his free hand, Cas reaches down, brushes his fingers over Dean’s knuckles.

Dean blinks. “What are you doing?” 

Cas turns his hand over, rubs his thumb along Dean’s wrist, the touch light, barely-there. Dean swallows, tips of his ears burning as goosebumps trail up his arms. Cas places the edge of his blade against his palm, cool to the touch, and presses it down, pulls it back hard and quick. Dean hisses and jumps away, watches blood leak to the surface of the cut. 

“Dude, what the hell?” Dean glares at him and holds his hand against his chest, presses his thumb into his palm to stop the bleeding. He feels a flash of cold against his skin, and when he looks again, the cut’s gone, only a smudge of blood left.

Cas tucks his blade away. “When an angel leaves its vessel, it leaves behind a—a fingerprint, so to speak. A bit of its grace. In most circumstances, the grace fades away and the vessel is none the wiser.” 

“Right. Okay,” Dean says. “Your point?” 

“You have archangel grace in you,” Cas says.

“But you said it fades away.”

Cas nods. “It does. Normally.” 

“So what’s the deal?” 

“Well, obviously something happened that wasn’t supposed to.”

Dean snorts. “Okay. And?”

Cas rolls his eyes. “My point being that if Sam’s alive, then it’s likely he has grace in him, as well.”

Dean looks away and chews on his lip, thinking. A dust devil whips its way through the field next to them, past an abandoned plow, works its way through the ditch and across the road, blowing grit towards them. 

“So,” Dean says. “You think this healer guy—”

“Might be worth checking out, yeah,” Cas says. 

Dean nods. Then looks at Cas and says, “If you ever cut me again, I will punch you.” 

Cas’s mouth twitches in the corner as he opens the passenger door.

///

Cas doesn’t play with the radio again.

Dean almost wishes he would, if only to distract him from the way Cas pokes at the hole in his jeans, twists the threads around his fingers. Instead, Dean watches the dull scenery go by, sits with his chin in his hand, elbow against the window. 

Baby runs out of gas halfway to Eden. 

Most of the stations they passed have been abandoned for years, their signs faded and cracked, their pumps rusted or missing altogether. They luck out the next town over. 

The station—a white, slanted building on the corner of a field, boasting two pumps and a repair shop in the back—is so small that Dean would have missed it if it weren’t for the large, hand-painted sign that says “ _YES, WE HAVE GAS._ ”

He eases the Impala up to the second pump and pulls his wallet out. Handing Cas a twenty, he says, “Wanna see if there’s any food left?” 

Cas takes the twenty and heads inside as Dean fills the tank. There’s not much else in the area, just a line of silos in the distance behind him and an old water tower in front of him. 

He finishes up and heads inside to pay. The building is cluttered inside, fans perched in every corner to keep it cool. There’s only one register, a few rows of shelves, a couple fridges at the back, and no sign of Cas. 

“Did you happen to see where the dark-haired guy went?” Dean asks, dropping his money on the counter.

“Out back,” the woman says, grabbing a book off the shelf behind her. She writes him a receipt and tears it off. Dean pockets the change when she hands it over and heads out the back door. 

The dry heat, the stench of hot concrete, of oil and rubber from the shop hits him like oncoming traffic. He kicks up dust as he rounds the corner of the building and finds Cas staring at a soda machine. A plastic bag full of snacks sits neglected at his feet. 

Dean stops beside him. The machine’s old, the kind that drops cans instead of bottles, and rusted at the bottom. Cas frowns at the labels and shakes his head. 

“I don’t get soda,” he says. “It’s just carbonated sugar. Why are there so many flavors?” 

Dean shrugs. “Another illusion of free will?” 

Cas hums in thought, then looks at him. “What should I get?” 

Dean digs into his pocket and pulls out the handful of loose change. He slips quarters into the machine, hits the top button, and says, “Coke’s usually a good choice.” 

A can of Something That Looks Like Coke, But Isn’t tumbles down into the tray. Dean grabs it, the metal cold against his fingers, and hands it to Cas. Cas holds it at arm’s length to open it but still gets a mess everywhere, on his shoes and running down his wrist. With a huff, he shakes it off, lifts his hand to suck foam off his fingers. 

Dean ducks his head, face warm, and clears his throat. Cas takes a cautious sip and grimaces.

“Well?” Dean asks.

“It’s definitely sweet,” Cas says. 

He takes another drink, then turns the can over to read the back as he contemplates the taste. Dean watches him, the warmth spreading from his face to his chest, settling into his bones.

“If getting stabbed didn’t kill me, the diabetes from drinking this definitely will,” Cas says.

Dean grabs the can from him. “You’re not gonna get diabetes from one can of knock-off Coke.” 

He chugs a mouthful. It’s cold but syrupy, too-sweet, the bubbles tickling his teeth. Cas leans back against the soda machine and watches. Dean wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. 

“That’s disgusting,” he says, handing the can back.

“You’re the one who bought it.” 

Dean rifles through the bag to see what snacks Cas picked out. Cas taps his fingers against the can, studies him for a minute. 

“Are you going to be okay?” he asks.

Drinking crappy soda at the back of a gas station in Middle of Nowhere, Texas, flannel sleeves rolled up to his elbows and scruff on his chin, Cas looks different. Comfortable. The rumpled suit, a bit too big, and the too-long coat that hung off him always seemed to weigh him down. 

Dean reaches out to grab the front of Cas’s shirt, an ugly gray plaid he must have found in Bobby’s closet or dug out of a lost and found somewhere, and tugs himself forward until his knee bumps Cas’s. Moves until he can feel his body heat, his stubble against his face, and his mouth, warm and soft and sticky-sweet, against his own. 

Cas freezes, his breath catching. Slowly, he raises his free hand, moves it closer. But before he can shove Dean off—or kiss him back, or smite him into a burnt husk, or or or—Dean pulls away, his face stinging-hot and eyes to the ground.

“What—” Cas tries. “What was that for?” 

Dean touches his mouth. Shakes his head.

“Nothing,” he says. He meets Cas’s eye, quick, and finds him staring at him, confused. “Just—yeah. Nothing. We should go.” 

Cas’s jaw twitches. He nods, holds out the can of Not-Coke, and Dean takes it, swallows down another mouthful that he doesn’t taste as Cas brushes past him. Dean grabs the bag of food and heads back to the car.


	6. Chapter 6

The sign into Eden reads “ _Experience the blessings…_ ” and features a red apple in the middle of the “D” that Dean snorts at as they drive past. It’s a small city, flat and unimpressive, with wide stretches of green farmland surrounding it. But it has power and gas and food—which is about the only thing going for it. 

Dean pulls into the parking lot of a diner just outside the city, the car bouncing in a pothole and stirring up dust. He parks next to a dirty blue truck, one of the few other vehicles in the oversized lot, and kills the engine. 

“What d’you think?” he asks. 

The building’s one-story, clean cream siding with a green roof, stone pillars along the walkway, and the kind of place foodie reviews would call “cozy.” Cas barely glances at it. 

“Whatever you say,” he says. 

Dean sighs. “Let’s just go in.”

The walls are covered in kitschy junk, road signs, fake music instruments, and some souvenirs from south of the border. A few men eat at the counter, a few more at the small tables scattered around the room. A young woman greets them with a smile and leads them over to a booth. 

“Seems kinda empty,” Dean says. “Considering you’re one of the only places for miles that’s got power.” 

The woman—Marley, according to her nametag—smiles again as she pours them glasses of ice water. “Lotta folks up and left, but we make due.” 

She hands them menus and wanders off. Cas sips at his water absentmindedly and eyes the wall decorations. Behind them, the door opens and a man walks in, slightly out of breath, his blond hair wind-mussed, and pulls an apron around his waist.

Marley looks up from the cash register. “Connor—”

“I know. Sorry, Mar,” the man says, passing by their table in a rush, the smell of cigarette smoke lingering behind him. Dean feels a tingle run down his spine and he looks up, watches the man round the counter and head into the kitchen. 

“It’s him,” he says. “The cook.”

Cas turns in his seat to look over his shoulder. The man pulls off his jacket and hangs it up, writes something down on the wall before disappearing out of sight. Cas turns back to the table and picks his glass up again. 

“What do you wanna do?” he asks.

Dean opens his mouth just as Marley appears at their table again, pen at the ready, still smiling as she says, “So. What can I get you boys?”

///

Dean closes the back door behind them and says, “Connor?”

The backlight flickers as moths tap against it, the sun setting beyond the field behind the diner. The cook looks up from where he’s sitting on an overturned milk crate, grease-stained apron hanging over his knees, cigarette between his fingers. 

He frowns. “Yeah?” 

“I’m Dean. This is Cas,” Dean says, stopping in front of him. “We’re here because of the, uh. The—”

“We wanna know about the man who healed you,” Cas says. 

Connor looks between the two of them. “You guys X-Files, or something?”

“Yeah,” Dean says. “Or something.”

Connor exhales a puff of smoke then stubs his cigarette out on the ground. 

“I got into this motorcycle accident a few years ago and screwed up my leg pretty bad. I walked with a limp, had to take a lot of breaks on long shifts, that kinda thing,” he says. “So when this guy walks in and says he’ll heal someone for a cup of coffee and something to eat, I thought, why the hell not, right?” 

“Right,” Dean says. 

“I didn’t buy it at first. But then the guy touched me. And, well—” Connor reaches down, grabs the bottom of his left pant leg and pulls it all the way up past his knee. He gestures to it and says, “I dunno how else to explain this.” 

His leg looks normal, no sign of cuts or broken bones anywhere. Not even a bruise. Dean swallows.

“This man,” Cas says. “What did he look like?” 

Connor shrugs, rolls his pant leg back down. “He was tall, and pretty young. Maybe only a few years younger than me. But, uh. He was kinda rough—homeless lookin’, y’know? Like, long hair, beard, that kinda thing.”

“What was his name?” Dean asks.

“Didn’t say,” Connor says. 

“Did you get anything else from him?” Dean asks. “Where he came from, or where he was going? What he ate? Anything at all?” 

“Chicken sandwich,” Connor says. “Didn’t say where he was going after, but he hitched a ride with some guy in a truck.” 

“Okay. Thanks—thank you,” Dean says. He digs his wallet out and pulls out a twenty, hands it to Connor, who blinks at it before pocketing it. 

“One more thing,” Cas says, and Dean looks at him. “When he healed you, what did it feel like?” 

Connor thinks for a moment before shaking his head. “I’unno. Kinda cold, I guess? And it hurt, but it was over really quick. One second I was a cripple and the next I wasn’t.” 

“Thank you,” Cas says, turning back towards the diner.

Dean frowns and tries to catch his eye. Cas doesn’t say anything, just waits for him to open the door. 

“This guy,” Connor says. “Is he like, magic, or something?”

Cas pauses. He glances up at Dean, then turns back to Connor.

“Or something,” he says.

///

Two hours south puts them in the gently rolling farmland outside San Antonio. gray clouds blow in from the east, carrying a cool breeze and the threat of a storm, so when Dean passes an abandoned gas station sitting at a corner, he doesn’t think twice about pulling in.

It’s damp and dark inside, the windows covered in years-old grime. The food’s long expired, but there’s a shelf of lanterns that still work and unopened bottles of water, so together they clear a spot behind the register for their bedrolls and lay down salt as thunder rattles the windows. 

The bathroom is barely larger than a closet, but it’s got a toilet and a sink. Dean uses a bottle of water to wash up. He gets the grit off his face and out of his hair, his mouth, and changes into clothes that smell a little less stale than the ones he’s got on. When he comes back into the main room, he finds Cas sitting with his back against the counter. 

Cas doesn’t look up at him, holds the radio between his knees, the static barely audible over the storm brewing outside. Dean watches him for a moment, wills Cas to look at him, taps his fingers against the counter.

Cas turns the radio dial, finds more static. 

Finally, Dean asks, “Are you okay?” 

Cas shrugs. “I’m fine.”

Dean rounds the counter. “Really? Because you’ve barely said a word to me all day.” 

Cas sighs and stops fiddling. “What do you want me to say?” 

“Well, it’d be nice if you looked at me, for starters,” Dean says. “Then, I don’t know. Tell me whatever the hell is bugging you?”

Cas sets the radio down beside him, the static fizzing out into a whisper, and finally meets his eyes. Dean holds his gaze, waiting. Lightning flashes outside and rain pelts against the window.

Finally, Cas asks, “Why did you kiss me?”

Dean blinks at him. “What?” 

“You heard me.” 

“I don’t—I don’t know,” Dean says. “I just—I wanted to.” 

“And that’s it?” Cas asks, his gaze making Dean squirm.

“No,” Dean says. “No, that’s not it.” 

He rubs at his eye and moves to sit next to Cas, mirroring his position, hands between his knees. There’s a nature calendar from 2008 hanging on the back wall, a picture of a deer standing on a hill for the month of May. Dean stares at it. 

“I was too chicken-shit before,” he says. He picks at his thumbnail, looks down at his hands. “And then you died.”

He looks up. Cas watches him, the glow of the lantern next to him casting dark shadows on his face. Dean swallows and looks away, clears his throat.

“Sorry,” he says. 

Cas frowns. “For what?”

“I dunno,” Dean says. “For everything, I guess.” 

“Dean,” Cas says. Dean looks at him again and Cas smiles. “You’re insufferable.” 

Dean laughs, the sound catching in his throat when Cas lifts his hand, presses his palm against his cheek, warm and big and gentle, and leans in. Cas’s breath feels soft on his face, a little quick, his scruff scratchy and lips hesitant when they press against Dean’s. 

Dean turns into it, shifts closer and kisses him back, kisses him properly this time, deeper. Cas’s hand slips from his cheek down, fingers brushing the back of his neck, thumb against his throat, his other hand coming to rest on Dean’s thigh. 

The radio crackles into static beside them and Cas tugs him even closer. Dean straddles him, knees digging into the counter as Cas nudges his chin, presses kisses along his jaw, slips his hands under Dean’s shirt and touches his hips, his palms warm against his bare skin. Dean catches his mouth, a little shaky, gets his hand in Cas’s hair when the static gives way. 

Piano music fades in and out and a woman sings, “ _I can stand a bit of lovin’, oh so bad. I feel so funny, I feel so sad. I need a little steam-heat on my floor—_ ”

Dean huffs and drops his head against Cas’s. “Gotta say, that’s, uh. Starting to weird me out a little.”

“Dean,” Cas says, voice low.

Dean clears his throat and pulls back, the radio still crooning “ _I need a little sugar in my bowl_ ,” making his face burn. Cas pulls his hand out from his shirt, places it against Dean’s chest instead like he’s feeling for a heartbeat. The music swells, the static disappearing completely, the woman’s voice crisp and clear.

Cas looks back at him and says, “That _is_ coming from you.”

Dean opens his mouth, closes it. Tries again. “I—what?”

“Angelic communication is a lot like a radio transmission,” Cas says.

“Okay,” Dean says. “So?”

“So, find the right wave and you can pick up an angel’s transmission. Hear what they’re saying, or thinking, or…” Cas glances down at the radio. “Feeling.”

“But that’s not—how can—” Dean shakes his head, the tips of his ears burning, his face hot. The radio fuzzes back into static for a second, the woman’s voice getting lost. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard this song in my life.”

“It’s still just a radio, Dean,” Cas says. He slides his hand up Dean’s chest, over his collar, his neck. The music comes out loud and clear again as the song reaches its climax. “It’s not coming from you directly. I think you’re just… manipulating it.”

“Oh. Well. That’s just awesome,” Dean says, slipping off Cas’s lap and onto the floor next to him, their shoulders touching. Cas just smiles at him, and Dean holds his hand out, waves it towards the radio. “Lemme see that thing.” 

Cas hands it over. Dean worries his bottom lip, touches the antenna, moves the dials with his thumb. The song falls away into white noise as he searches through stations for a long moment until another voice breaks through.

“Seems like our Magic Man was on the move again,” a woman says. “A few weeks ago, a new church went up in Catheys Valley after the old one—” The radio cuts out. Dean taps it, the signal returning. “—a new special guest who can perform miracles.” 

“Where the hell is Catheys Valley?” Dean asks.

“California,” Cas says. 

Dean nods. He turns the radio off and sets it aside, the room falling quiet. He drops his head back against the counter and closes his eyes, listens to the storm howling outside, rain lashing against the windows, wind and thunder making them rattle. Cas shifts next to him, warmth against his side.

Dean opens his eyes. “Do you really think it’s him?”

Cas stares up at the window, quiet. Dean taps the back of his hand when Cas doesn’t respond. Cas looks down, twitches his fingers against Dean’s, soft and ticklish. 

“I think there’s a very good possibility that it is, yes,” he says. 

“So why do you think he—” Dean stops. Tries again. “Why didn’t he come home?”

Quietly, Cas says, “I don’t know, Dean.” 

Dean swallows, jaw clenching against the pain in his stomach. Cas moves his hand, covers Dean’s with his own, thumb brushing against his palm. Slowly, he traces up, along his wrist, drawing circles on his skin. Dean exhales.

“Okay,” he says. “Guess we’re going to California.”

///

The drive west is bland and dry as they pass through the deserts of New Mexico. Brown dirt and dead grass and not much else stretches ahead of them for miles as a man yodels over the radio, “ _You got me wearied now, but I won’t be wearied long. I got the California blues—_ ”

They pass another hunter camp set up in a small town, just outside the post office, a few miles down the road from an oil field. Dean parks the car on the side of the road, turning a few heads, and together he and Cas walk over. 

A woman named Penny introduces herself and her partner, Theresa, as the leaders, and invites them for lunch under a makeshift canopy. They eat pork off paper plates with their bare hands, and what few vegetables they can find. 

“We’re looking for a man,” Dean tells them. “We keep hearing about him over the radio—”

Theresa looks up. “Magic Man?” 

“That’s the one,” Dean says. 

“That’s Donnie and Cheryl,” Penny says. “They’ve got this, uh. Transmitter thing that Donnie had from his long-haul days. Hang on.” 

She calls out to them, and a moment later a man and a woman creep out from their tent, looking confused. Penny introduces them, Dean and Cas shaking their hands, and gestures for them to sit. 

“You guys run the radio show?” Dean asks. 

“Try to,” Cheryl says. 

“You guys got some news?” Donnie asks. 

“We’re looking for your, um. ‘Magic Man’,” Cas says. 

Donnie snorts. “You and half the country.” 

“Over the past couple days we’ve had a lot of people pass through,” Penny says. “Normal folk, people who had to leave their homes, whose towns were destroyed.”

“And everyone that we talked to said the same thing: they’re all headed west, to California, to see the man with the magical healing powers,” Donnie says. 

“So how do we find him?” Dean asks. 

“You’ll probably wanna see the preacher,” Donnie says. 

“Preacher?” Cas asks. 

“Father Daniel,” Cheryl says. “His church burnt down a couple months back after some freak storm. So he started giving services out of a tent. Apparently he’s one of the few people left in the country still preaching, so the religious nutters are flocking to see him.”

“In times of trouble…” Theresa mutters. 

Cheryl nods to her. “Then the Magic Man shows up.” 

“He’s got this sort of—I’unno. Compound thing going on,” Donnie says. “There’s camps set up for all the travelers who come to see him. That’d probably be the best place to start.” 

“All right, thanks,” Dean says. He stands, rubs his hands on his jeans and nods to Cas, who sets his paper plate aside, moves to get up.

“Wait,” Donnie says, holding out his hand to stop them. They pause and Donnie drops his hand, looks between the two of them. “Look, I wouldn’t feel right letting you two wander off without warning you. If you go looking for this guy… I’d be careful.”

Cas looks at Dean, then asks, “Why?”

Donnie shrugs. “Just—be careful. Faith healers, people with powers like this—I’ve run into a few of them. There always seems to be a catch.”

///

They cross into Arizona by nightfall, and from there it’s another twelve hours to Catheys Valley. In the morning they drive through a small dust storm and stop for fuel and snacks. The cashier eyes them when Dean asks for the bathroom key but hands it over without a word.

Dean shaves the best he can, uses paper towels to wash up. Cas rolls his sleeves up to his elbows and washes his face at the sink, doesn’t bother with a razor. He dries his face on his shirt and Dean reaches for him, pins him against the dirty tile wall and kisses him, tastes desert dirt and cheap coffee. 

“Dean,” Cas says, breathless, Dean nudging his knee between his thighs and getting his fingers on his zipper. Cas presses up into his hand, doesn’t say _wait_ or _not here_ , but the cashier knocks on the door and Dean pulls back, ducks his head. 

Two other cars full of travelers join them that night, parked beside a dry, sandy road that cuts through the Mojave. One of the drivers—a middle-aged man with a beat-up station wagon, Jesus fish sticker stuck to the back bumper—says they’re on their way to see a faith healer.

“What am I gonna say to him?” Dean asks later. 

“‘Hello’ might be a good place to start.” Cas says, moving beans around the bottom of his bowl.

“He’s gonna be pissed,” Dean says.

“You don’t know that.” 

Dean shifts against the cool, dry wind blowing in from the open window, folds his arms across his chest and looks towards the hill in the distance. Cas sighs and sets the bowl aside, turns in his seat to look at him.

“Even if he is, he’s still your brother,” he says. 

Dean clenches his jaw, doesn’t look at him.

“Hey.” Cas moves closer and touches his shoulder, rubs his neck. Dean closes his eyes and exhales. 

“I’m scared, Cas,” he says.

Cas drops his hand to rest it on his knee. “I know.” 

Dean slips his hand over Cas’s and squeezes. Finally he looks up, meets Cas’s eye, and says, “Thank you.” 

Cas tilts his head. “For what?” 

“Just—being here. Coming with me,” Dean says. “I don’t think I could do this on my own.”

“I think you could,” Cas says. 

“Yeah, well.” Dean rubs his thumb along Cas’s wrist. “I don’t want to.” 

Cas smiles, turns his hand to touch his fingers to Dean’s palm, light and ticklish. Dean slumps against his side, lets Cas pull him closer and wrap his arms around his shoulders.

They fall quiet. Dean rests head against Cas’s chest and listens to his heart beat gently against his ear.

///

“Jesus,” Dean says. Cas just stares.

After hours of driving through California countryside, they pass their first camp, a small cluster of cars and tents and RVs along the fence outside a horse ranch. The further they drive the more they come across, until finally they find it.

The white tent sticks out like a massive sore thumb against a backdrop of golden meadows and distant rolling hills. Parked cars and trucks line the ditches in both directions, and a large crowd gathers in the middle of the road. The hand-painted sign at the front of the gate reads: “ _THE VALLEY’S SECOND CHANCE HOUSE OF LIGHT_ ”.

Dean pulls off the road and parks behind an old Honda. 

“This is nuts,” he says, his head low and shoulders tense as they walk towards the church. Cas sticks close to his side, their arms brushing every few steps, a small comfort. 

As they reach the front gate, a man and a woman greet the crowd and hand out pamphlets. The sign creaks in the breeze and sends a shiver down Dean’s spine. The woman smiles at him when he reaches the gate, her white dress ironed and her hair tied back, neat and tidy.

Slipping a pamphlet into his hand, she says, “Enjoy the service.”

///

It’s hot and stuffy inside the tent, smells of dust and sweat. Most of the crowd is already taking up more than half the seats near the front, made up of people who have obviously been on the road, their clothing rumpled and shoes dirty, bags under their eyes from long days driving. Others look freshly showered and shaved, their clothes clean. Locals, most likely.

Dean picks a seat near the back, plunking down next to a large woman with two kids and a thin man in glasses. Cas sits on Dean’s opposite, pamphlet in hand. There’s a drawing of an angel playing a harp on the front. Dean snorts at it. 

“It’s the apocalypse and they’re wasting money photocopying church programs?” he says, quiet, head bent towards Cas. 

“I guess it brings them comfort,” Cas says. 

“Fat lotta good that’ll do,” Dean says. 

A gray-haired man in a short-sleeved clergy shirt climbs the stairs to the podium at the front of the stage. He raises a Bible above his head and the crowd’s murmurs fall silent. The man smiles as he lowers the Bible. 

“Good morning, brothers and sisters,” he says. Dean feels a breath on the back of his neck and shivers, glances over his shoulder towards the back of the tent. A security guard stands next to the closed flap, dressed in black, but there’s no one else there.

Dean looks around, notices more security posted at each entrance. A dark-haired woman in a black leather jacket slips out a side entrance and Dean’s muscles tighten, his hands clenching together in his lap. 

Beside him, Cas asks, “What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing,” Dean says. He watches the guard close the flap and settles back in his seat, tries to ignore the weird feeling in his stomach. “Just—thought I saw something.”

The minister carries on for a while, about how blessed they are that God has spared them and their town, has given them a second chance. The crowd passes a collection plate around as he talks about the past few months, how they were warnings to sinners that they need to repent, to return to the path of the Lord. Dean rolls his eyes and bites his tongue. 

Afterwards, a group of men and women gather at the back of the stage and begin to sing, “ _And am I born to die, to lay this body down? And must my trembling spirit fly into a world unknown?_ ”

Someone—something—sends a chill down his neck again. Dean hunches his shoulders against it, feels Cas looking at him. The crowd around them sings along, some with their eyes closed and hands in the air, transfixed. 

Dean meets Cas’s eye, watches him for a moment, Cas looking as uneasy as he feels, before one of the flaps at the front of the tent opens.

A man walks in, dressed in white, his chin lined with a thick beard and hair down to his shoulders. Dean’s breath catches in his throat. The man walks across the stage to shake the minister’s hand as the song comes to an end, “ _I from my grave shall rise, and see the Judge with glory crowned, and see the flaming skies._ ”

At the front of the tent, standing tall behind the podium, Sam smiles and says, “Thank you all for coming.”


	7. Chapter 7

For an hour, Dean watches his brother perform miracles. 

The minister asks who needs to be saved, who needs their faith restored, and hands shoot up, people scattered among the crowd, waving desperately and calling out. Sam selects people seemingly at random. One by one they approach the stage, frantically murmuring their appreciation, and the minister asks what ails them. 

Sam places his hands on them and closes his eyes. The people gasp and shout and cry out as he heals them, the crowd praising loudly, their hands in the air and heads bent in prayer, chanting and singing together. Dean’s stomach bubbles uncomfortably. Cas stares on in shock. 

After the sermon—or spectacle, or whatever it’s called when someone magically heals people in an overheated tent in the middle of an apocalypse—a few stragglers stay behind to mingle.

Sam smiles at them, takes their hands in both of his and holds them, pats them on the shoulder like he cares, like he knows them and understands them. After an elderly woman wobbles away, Sam glances up and catches Dean’s eye. He stares at him for a moment, curious, before he looks away again, and Dean shifts against a sudden chill.

“You’re new here,” the man next to him says. 

“Uh, yeah. I guess,” Dean says. “Just passing through.”

“Hmm,” the man says. He nods towards the stage, towards Sam, and asks, “What d’ya think?”

Dean’s hands fidget. He pins them together with his knees. “Sure is something.”

“We’ve been going to Father Daniel’s service for years,” the man says. “He’s always been good. He’s real personable.” 

“Sure.” Dean nods. Beside him, Cas leans forward to listen in. 

“I respect Father Daniel, so maybe it’s not my place to say,” the man says. “But this new fella, there’s something about him. It ain’t right, no sir.” 

Cas looks at Dean. To the man he asks, “How do you mean?” 

“Oh, just a feelin’ I get.” The man waves a hand. “Like something’s not kosher, y’know?”

His wife returns from talking to the minister, her face flushed with excitement, with the heat of the tent. She fans herself with her folded pamphlet, herds her family out of their seats and gives Dean a smile as she passes, leaves him to sit with the sick feeling in his stomach.

“What do you think?” Dean asks once they’re out of earshot. 

“Something’s… off,” Cas says.

Dean looks up at Sam again, who greets a young couple with a distracted smile, his eyes flicking towards him again. Dean rubs at the goosebumps on his arms. After a moment, he gets out of his chair. 

Cas grabs him. “Where are you going?”

Dean looks at Sam, then towards the back exit. “I don’t—Christ. I dunno, Cas.”

“We came all this way,” Cas says. “Don’t you think we should at least talk to him?”

The couple leaves and the line shuffles forward, only a few people left. Dean swallows the lump in his throat and looks towards the exit again. The air inside the tent is too hot, too thick, his vision blurry at the edges. Cas waits, hand still on his arm, and Dean wipes at his mouth, tries to remember how to breathe. 

“Yeah,” Dean says. “Yeah—okay.”

///

It’s only once they’re up close that the lines under Sam’s eyes become noticeable, the hollow look to his cheeks. He’s thin and pale and sickly-looking, but he smiles all the same, eyes bright and excited as he reaches his hand out.

“Hello,” he says. “Thank you for coming. I’m Brother Matthew.” 

The lump in Dean’s throat drops into the pit of his stomach. He opens his mouth, tries to force something out—anything—but he can’t. Cas glances at him before he takes Sam’s hand. 

“Matthew,” he says, slow, like he’s testing it. “My name is Cas.” 

Sam nods, then reaches for Dean, who stares at him. 

“Um,” Cas says. “This is Dean.”

“Dean,” Sam says, the way people who meet someone for the first time say it, so they’ll remember it again in five minutes. When Dean doesn’t take his hand, Sam drops his and says, “You have the Gift.” 

Dean blinks at him.

“Sorry. That was rude,” Sam says. “It’s just—I’ve never met anyone else who has it. I thought I was the only one.” 

Finally, Dean gets words to work, manages to crack out, “The—the Gift?”

Sam nods, gestures towards the near-empty tent. “That’s what they call it. What Father Daniel calls it. It’s how I help people. I see you have it, too.”

Dean frowns at him. “What—how can you tell?”

“You have this kind of… glow, I guess. This energy,” Sam says. 

One of the security guards clears his throat. Sam looks up at him, nods, then turns back to them. “Listen—I’d love to talk, but now’s not a good time. Can you meet me later? I’m staying with Father Daniel. I can tell them you’re coming and they’ll let you in.” 

“Uh,” Dean says. Sam looks at him, eyes wide and desperate, the same puppy-dog look he’s managed to perfect over the years. Dean’s hands twitch at his sides. “Sure.” 

Sam breaks into a grin, grabs his hand and shakes it firmly. “Thank you. Thank you so much—we’ll have dinner and talk, I promise.”

Dean watches as he steps off the stage, moves towards the exit. The guard opens the flap for him and Sam walks out into the sunlight. He greets the dark-haired woman, and Dean’s knees finally give out from under him.

///

Father Daniel smiles at them when he opens the door. A tall man, though not particularly broad, he looks smaller standing on the porch of his old farmhouse than he does standing behind a podium at the front of a church.

“You must be Dean and Cas,” he says, shaking their hands. “Brother Matthew told me you’d be coming.” 

“Yeah.” Dean looks around at the crowds of people wandering around the property, the lines of tents and trailers, the man at the front gate with a cowboy hat and a shotgun. “Sorry, Father, but… what is all this?”

“I’d like to think it’s proof that good things come to those who wait.” Father Daniel steps out onto the porch to join them. He adds, “And to those who pray.” 

Cas studies him for a moment. “Your church burned down a couple months ago.” 

“Yes, it did.” Father Daniel nods. He wanders off the porch, into the yard, and Dean and Cas follow him. “We were using it as a shelter once the storms got worse. But I should have known better. It was an old building and couldn’t handle that kind of weather. Unfortunately, we lost a few of our members in the fire.”

“I’m sorry,” Cas says. Father Daniel smiles at him. 

“Many people have lost their jobs, their homes, their families and friends. They’ve lost their hope,” he continues. “Despite my own personal losses, the shame from my mistakes, I started to give services again. People from all over the country showed up to attend.”

A truck rolls up the driveway, people crammed in the front cab and more in the back, all gathered around a dog. Father Daniel waves as they pass before turning back to them. 

“Then I met Brother Matthew,” he says. “I had broken my arm setting up the tent, and he said he’d heal it for me for some change. Instead, I offered him a place to stay. Showed him how he could channel his God-given gift and restore faith to those most in need.”

Something in Dean’s stomach twitches uncomfortably. 

“And lemme guess,” he says. “Your flock doubled overnight.” 

“Something like that, yes.” Father Daniel nods. “Brother Matthew has become a well-loved member of our church, one who brings hope to those who have lost it. His presence here benefits all of us.”

“Yeah.” Dean grins against the sour taste in his mouth. “I bet.”

Father Daniel looks at him, opens his mouth to respond just as Sam wanders around the corner of the house and spots them. He makes his way over, touches Father Daniel’s shoulder in greeting. 

“I’m glad you made it,” Sam says to them. Then he turns to Father Daniel. “Do you mind if I borrow them for dinner?”

“By all means.” Father Daniel steps back, gestures to them with his hand. He looks at Dean and says, “I believe we were finished, anyway.”

///

Sam leads them into a guest apartment at the back of the house. It’s small and plain, decorated with white wallpaper and a wooden cross that hangs over the door. A gray-haired woman sets the kitchen table as she hums along to gospel music on the radio.

“Thank you, Gretta,” Sam says. To Dean and Cas, he says, “Gretta is Father Daniel’s housekeeper. She makes the greatest spaghetti and meatballs.” 

Gretta smiles at him as she unties her apron, touches his arm as she passes. The three of them sit, and Sam folds his hands together on the table, ducks his head in prayer. Dean looks at Cas, who looks back, confused, but folds his hands together. 

“So, where do you come from?” Sam asks after. He grabs a knife and fork and cuts into a meatball. Even under the warm, bright light of his small kitchen, he still looks weak, still looks pale and gaunt. 

“Uh.” Dean picks up his fork, pokes it into his pile of food. “Kansas, originally. Now, kinda all over.” 

Sam nods and shoves spaghetti into his mouth. Then he looks to Cas, expectant.

“Oh,” Cas says. He picks up his fork and says, “I’m—um. Not from around here.”

“What about you?” Dean asks before Sam can question further.

“I’m actually not sure,” he says. “I woke up in a barn outside Wichita with no idea how I got there. So I started walking, and then I met a woman who was hurt. When I went to help her…”

“You healed her?” Cas asks.

Sam nods. “I don’t know how. I just touched her and she was healed. She said, ‘A good man brings good things out of the good stored up in him.’”

Dean frowns. “What?”

“Book of Matthew,” Cas says. 

“That’s right,” Sam says. He looks at Dean and asks, “When did you realize you had the Gift?” 

Dean swallows a mouthful of food and looks at Cas, who twirls spaghetti around his fork and doesn’t meet his eye. 

“Someone hurt my friend. And I was…” Dean fidgets, tries to get the words out. “It just sort of happened.”

Sam nods, attentive and understanding, same dewy-eyed look he’d always give witnesses and victims’ families while on a hunt. Dean looks down at his plate, his grip on his fork tight.

“It sounds like you’ve run into your fair share of trouble,” Sam says. 

Dean huffs. “Yeah, you could say that.” 

“Your Gift, have you ever used it for—” Sam shifts uncomfortably, looks between them. “For other things?”

Dean frowns at him. “Like what?” 

Sam hesitates. The gospel music fades into an old blues song and Sam sets his knife and fork down. 

“I’ve done things,” he says. “Things I’m ashamed of.”

“What kind of things?” Cas asks.

“I’ve hurt people,” Sam says. “I’ve done worse than hurt people. When I was on the road, people would come to me, and some of them tried to hurt me. And I—I killed them.” 

Cas looks at Dean, then says, “These people—did they say what they wanted?”

“They wanted the Gift,” Sam says. He looks down at the table. “I don’t understand why I’ve been given a gift that hurts people. I try to help people, to make up for hurting others, but I can’t—I don’t think I ever can.” 

Dean and Cas exchange a glance. A clock ticks on the far wall, and the radio plays, loud in the quiet room, “ _Me and the devil was walking side-by-side._ ”

Finally, Cas sets his fork down. 

“These people,” he says. “Did any of them have black eyes?”

Sam looks up, stares at him for a moment before nodding. “A few of them, yeah.” 

“They were demons,” Dean says. 

Sam blinks. “Demons? Like—” 

“Like evil spirits from Hell, yeah. Those kinda demons,” Dean says. 

“What would they want with me—with the Gift?” Sam asks. 

“We’re not sure yet,” Cas says. “But they’re after Dean, too.”

Sam looks down at his hands folded together on the table, his jaw twitching as he thinks. After a long moment, Sam sighs and shakes his head. He rubs at his face, beard scratching, and looks at them. 

“You must be exhausted,” he says. He pulls a small stack of cards out of his back pocket and hands one to Dean. “There’s still some spare tents left. Hand this to Craig at the table and he’ll let you in.” 

Dean looks at the card. The front has Father Daniel’s name on it, the name of his church. On the back, in bold marker, someone’s written the number 22. 

“Thanks,” he says. 

Sam nods, and with that, Dean realizes they’re being dismissed. He pockets the card and looks at Cas, and together they head into the hallway. Sam follows them to the door.

“I have another service in the morning,” he says. “But I’d like to figure this out.”

Dean pauses, hand on the doorknob, and turns back to him.

“Believe me,” he says. “Us too.”

///

As they make their way out of the house, towards the camp, a voice behind them says, “Fancy meeting you boys here.”

They turn around. Dean’s hand twitches towards his gun. 

With a huff, Meg comes to stand in front of them. 

“Relax,” she says. “I come in peace.” 

“Like hell you do,” Dean says. He grabs his gun, but before he can fire off a round, Cas holds his arm out and blocks him. 

“What are you doing here?” he asks. 

“I came to see the Magic Man about this pain in my ass,” Meg says. When neither of them respond, she sighs, folds her arms and nods towards the house. “I’m here with him.” 

Dean frowns at her. “What?” 

Meg looks at him. “For protection, dumbass.” 

Dean slowly puts his gun away and Cas lowers his arm.

“To protect him?” Dean asks. “Bullshit.”

Meg sighs. “Look, you and your brother managed to ruin the prizefight, but there’s still a war going on. The champs are out of the ring, so now the runts are falling over themselves to get their hands on whatever power they can.”

“And they want Sam?” Dean asks.

“No,” Meg says. “They want Lucifer’s grace.” 

“What’s that gonna do?”

“It’s energy,” Cas says. Dean looks at him, and Cas says, “Grace—it’s just energy, in a way. Channeled properly, it can be used for simple things, like powering a light or a radio. Or it can be used for spells and weapons.”

“Exactly. All the fun things you don’t want Crowley or Raphael to get their hands on,” Meg says. “So, here I am. I lay low, keep the hexbags stocked, and keep tabs on the minions in case they get too close.” 

“Right,” Dean says. “So what’s in it for you?”

Meg makes face. “What, I can’t do this out of the goodness of my own heart?”

“No.”

Meg rolls her eyes. “Fine, you caught me. I’ve got demons on my ass—Crowley wants to wipe out any leftover Lucifer loyalists. So I protect Sam. I told him I was a friend, so he protects me. While he still can.”

“And that’s it?” Cas asks.

Meg holds up her hand. “Scout’s honor.” 

“What d’you mean, while he still can?” Dean asks. 

Meg looks at him, and for a second, a blink, Dean sees something in her face that almost looks like sympathy. It’s gone again in a flash, Meg’s lip curling up in the corner. 

“He’s got Lucifer Juice pumping through his pipes, Dean-o,” she says. “What do you think?”


	8. Chapter 8

Despite the crowd, it’s fairly quiet on Father Daniel’s property. Most people stick to their tents or cars, but a small group gathers around a bonfire at the edge of the camp to drink coffee and share stories. 

Dean tunes them out as he fiddles with the radio in the dim light of a lantern. A news report announces that the flood waters in New York are finally starting to recede. He doesn’t look up when the tent flap opens and Cas ducks inside, two steaming mugs in hand.

“I’m fine,” Dean says. 

“I wasn’t gonna ask,” Cas says. He hands him a mug and Dean rests it on his knee. Cas closes the tent flap, sits down next to him, and says, “Because I know you’re not.”

Dean sniffs, takes a drink. The coffee’s a bit too sweet, but it’s hot and tastes a hell of a lot better than the sludge from gas stations. He sets it down again. Cas watches him for a moment before he reaches up and touches the back of Dean’s neck, his hand warm. 

“Do you think he’s—” Dean swallows and tries again. “Do you think he’s still in there, somewhere?”

Cas brushes the pad of his thumb along his jaw. After a moment, he nods. “I think so.”

Dean scrubs at his face with his hands, tries to fight back the pain in his chest, the way his eyes sting, but it’s no use. He gives up, gives in, lets himself break down. 

“I was so fucking stupid,” he says, voice cracking. Cas moves, puts his coffee down to wrap an arm around his shoulders, to pull him in. He lets Dean shake against his chest and bury his face into his neck. 

“You weren’t stupid,” Cas says. On the radio, a man with a guitar sings, “ _My girl, my girl, don’t lie to me._ ”

“I was,” Dean says. “I was stupid and weak, and I gave in.” 

“Hey,” Cas says, pulling back to touch his face, tilting his chin up. Dean keeps his eyes down, and Cas says, “Dean—Look at me.”

After a moment, Dean does. Cas ducks his head to hold his eye. 

“You were manipulated,” he says. “You were broken down by beings who are highly skilled at destruction, and who are far more powerful than you. Trust me—I would know.” 

Dean swallows and Cas wipes his cheeks with his thumbs. The glow from the lantern outlines his face. Carefully, Dean moves, leans in to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. With a hum, Cas kisses him back, soft and careful, like he’s afraid he’ll break. Grabbing the front of his shirt, fingers twisting into the fabric, Dean pulls Cas on top of him and lies back against the bedrolls. 

“ _Dean_ ,” Cas says, quiet, and Dean kisses him again, deeper, touches his tongue to his lips. He bucks against him, getting hard in his jeans, the sound of Cas’s breath hitching barely audible over the radio, and slips his hands under the back of his shirt.

Cas pulls back, breathless, and lets Dean nip at his jaw a moment before he ducks his head to plant kisses on his neck. He pulls at Dean’s belt with clumsy fingers, and Dean lifts his hips, helps Cas get his jeans and boxers down. 

Sliding lower, Cas mouths at the inside of Dean’s thigh, his scruff scratching his skin and making it burn. Dean closes his eyes, bites his lip to keep from making noise. Finally, Cas wraps a hand around him, sucks his cock into his mouth and works him, clumsy and messy, his tongue hot.

“Jesus,” Dean gasps. “Cas— _fuck_.” 

Cas pulls off with a pop, chest heaving, and Dean drags him up by the collar of his shirt, kisses him hard, hands frantic and shaking at the button of Cas’s fly. 

“Off,” Dean says. “Help me get them off.”

“Let me.” Cas nudges his hands away. He loosens his belt, unbuttons his jeans and yanks them down, skin bare and dark-gold in the lantern light. 

Hand on his shoulder, Dean rolls them, pushes Cas onto his back and crawls between his legs. He lines them up, Cas straining against him, and wraps his hand around them both. Cas slips his hands up the back of Dean’s t-shirt, holds him close and fucks up into his fist, his breath shaking. Dean grinds into it, desperate. 

It’s over quick, Cas’s grip tight as he tenses beneath him, comes with his eyes closed and head thrown back. Dean scrapes at his throat with his teeth and lets out a quiet moan, spills out into his palm.

On the radio, the man with the guitar sings, “ _I would shiver the whole night through._ ”

///

Eventually the tent cools, the camp growing quiet as the fire dies down. Coffee long gone cold, Dean dumps the mugs outside and fills them with bottled water, hands one to Cas to wash up.

They lie together afterwards, Dean’s head on Cas’s chest. He stares at the tent wall as Cas runs a hand through his hair, slow and gentle, draws patterns on his back with the other. 

Eventually, he asks, “He’s dying, isn’t he?”

Cas pauses, his hand warm. “Yes.”

Dean swallows. Cas doesn’t move, just waits. 

“What do we do?” Dean asks. 

“Extracting the grace would be the best option. But we’d need the right equipment, and even then, there’s still risks involved. Sam not knowing who he is…” Cas shakes his head. “It wouldn’t be easy.”

Dean curls his fingers into the collar of Cas’s Bob Seger t-shirt. It’s one of Dean’s old ones that he bought secondhand, gray with black sleeves, five horses running across the front. 

“What if he did know?” he asks. Cas tilts his head and Dean sits up, looks at him. “What if Sam knew who he was?” 

“Then I imagine it’d be easier to convince him, at least,” Cas says.

“Right,” Dean says. “So maybe we just need to jog his memory.”

///

He finds Sam on the back porch of Father Daniel’s house the next afternoon. Dressed in a loose white t-shirt and jeans, he sits with his eyes closed, one hand wrapped around a glass of iced tea, the other rubbing small, tight circles into his temple.

“Long morning?” Dean asks.

Sam opens his eyes and looks up at him. “Dean—hey.” 

Dean nods and Sam gestures for him to sit. 

“Just a bit of a headache today,” he says as Dean pulls out a chair next to him. He lifts his glass of iced tea and says, “It usually goes away after I finish one of these.”

“Sure,” Dean says. “Especially if there’s vodka in it.” 

Sam smiles, takes a drink. “‘Fraid not.” 

“So it takes a lot out of you, huh?” Dean asks. “Healing people, I mean.”

“It doesn’t for you?” Sam asks.

“I haven’t really done it much,” Dean says.

“Well, it’s a bit like running a marathon, I guess. It’s hard work but it’s worth it in the end,” Sam says. “Especially if you can help people.”

Dean nods. “Makes sense.”

It’s a warm day, the sun bright overhead. A few rain clouds dot the sky in the distance. Sam looks out across the property, at the groups of people gathered together, helping each other, cooking food and washing dishes and talking among themselves. Dean watches him out of the corner of his eye.

“What if it did something bad to you, though?” he asks, breaking the silence. “Y’know, like, what if it was making you sick?” 

Sam frowns at him. His skin’s a bit paler today, his eyes a little more glazed over, the bags under them a touch darker. Still, he shrugs and says, “I feel fine.” 

“Really?” Dean asks.

Sam turns to him. “Y’know, I’m curious. What exactly brought you and your friend here?” 

Dean hesitates. “I guess we were hoping to get some answers.”

“About the Gift?” 

Dean looks at him. Sam looks back, holds his eye. Challenging him. 

“About you,” Dean says. 

Sam blinks. “What about me?” 

Dean’s chest feels tight with nerves, his hands fidgeting between his knees. He exhales, tries to keep it together. 

“About why you didn’t come home,” he says. 

Sam stares at him, opens his mouth and closes it again. Thunder rumbles in the distance. 

Finally, Sam manages to croak out, “What?”

“Your name’s not Matthew,” Dean says, and the floodgate opens. “It’s Sam Winchester. You were born in Lawrence, Kansas, on May 2nd, 1983. Your parents were John and Mary Winchester.” 

“What—” Sam says. “What are you—”

Dean continues. “When you were six months old, a demon came into your nursery and killed your mother. Your father was hell-bent on getting revenge and raised you to be a hunter—someone who kills monsters. Demons, vampires, werewolves, the list goes on.”

“I don’t—I don’t understand.”

“Last year, you broke the final seal that allowed Lucifer to walk the Earth. He needed a vessel so he could fight the archangel Michael and bring on the apocalypse,” Dean says. “And you said yes.”

Sam shakes his head. “You’re insane.” 

“I know how it sounds,” Dean says. “But I’m your brother.”

Sam gets out of his chair, starts to pace back and forth on the porch, his bare feet sticking to the floorboards. He shakes his head again, stops to look at Dean. 

“No,” he says. “No, you’re lying. I was given a gift—God gave me a gift.”

“I’m sorry, but he didn’t.” Dean stands from his chair and blocks Sam’s pacing. “Look me in the eye and tell me I’m lying.” 

Sam clenches his jaw, looks away. “But Father Daniel—”

“Fuck Father Daniel!” Dean snaps. “The guy is using you—can’t you see that?” 

Sam exhales, sharp, shakes his head again. Dean grabs Sam’s shoulder, forces him to face him, to look at him. 

“Listen to me,” Dean says. “Lucifer’s grace is going to kill you.” 

“No,” Sam says. 

“Yes, Sam, it’s why there’s angels and demons after you. But me and Cas—we can help you. We can get rid of it before it’s too late,” Dean says. “But you gotta trust me, man.” 

Sam swallows, chest heaving and jaw working. Dean lets go of his shoulder and stands back, gives him room to breathe. After a moment, Sam rounds his shoulders, stands at his full height, and finally looks at him.

“I was put here to do God’s work,” he says. “If it kills me, then at least I’ll die doing what He wanted.”

“Sam—” Dean tries. 

“I’ve helped people—saved them!” Sam shouts, stepping closer, towering over him. Dean steps back, the porch railing digging into his hip. 

Sam stops and lets out a huff. 

“Tell me, Dean,” he says. “Who have you saved lately?”

///

On Tap Tavern sits on the corner of an old highway and a road that cuts back through the valley. It’s a small, cream-colored building that’s barely more than a shack, surrounded by gold grass and clumps of trees. Dean wasn’t looking for a bar, but after an hour of walking, fuming and aimless, he heads inside.

It’s a dive, dark and cramped, with an old jukebox stuffed in the corner playing rock music. The only patrons are two truckers in a booth and a group of bikers around the pool table. 

Dean sits at the bar and orders a double shot of whiskey. He downs it and wipes his mouth, nods to the bartender. “Keep ‘em coming.”

He loses track of how many shots he has, but it’s enough that his skin feels warm and his vision’s gone fuzzy. He switches over to beer just as the door opens behind him. Father Daniel walks in and makes his way up to the bar. 

“Didn’t take you for much of a drinker, Padre,” Dean says.

Father Daniel glances at him, then turns to the bartender. “Tonic water, please.” 

Dean snorts, takes a sip of his beer. The bartender slides the tonic water across the bar and Father Daniel turns to him properly. 

“Dean, right?” 

“One and only.” 

Father Daniel nods. He gestures to the bar stool next to him. “May I?” 

Dean shrugs. “Free country.” 

“I want you to know that I understand,” Father Daniel says, sliding onto the stool. “When faced with something one can’t explain, some skepticism is normal. It’s how we, as humans, protect ourselves.” 

Dean turns to look at him. “That so?” 

“Of course,” Father Daniel says. “For many people, seeing something that doesn’t fit with what they’ve come to believe, they feel their beliefs are being challenged or threatened. So they lash out.” 

Dean takes another drink from his bottle. He lets its sit in his mouth, bubbles cool on his tongue, and watches him. From the jukebox, George Thorogood says, “ _Gonna get high, man, gonna get loose._ ”

“For many—even those who have faith, who believe—Brother Matthew’s gifts are hard for them to accept at first,” Father Daniel continues. “Seeing something like that for the first time, I don’t blame you for questioning it.” 

Dean swallows his drink and says, “When you’re talking, do you hear how full of shit you are?”

Father Daniel blinks. “I beg your pardon?”

“You meet some homeless guy—some guy who can’t even remember who he is—and find out he has healing powers, and what do you do?” Dean asks. “You brainwash him. You get him to perform his little miracles so you can milk good people—people who have lost almost everything—out of what little they have left.” 

“I assure you, son, that’s not what happened,” Father Daniel says. “Brother Matthew is happy here—”

“Are you fucking blind?” Dean slams his fist down on the bar and Father Daniel jumps. “He’s dying, you stupid son of a bitch!”

“He’s doing good work—God’s work,” Father Daniel says, and Dean laughs, short and bitter. “If God intends for him to—”

The force of Dean’s fist hitting Father Daniel’s jaw is enough to knock him off his stool. Dean bends down to grab the collar of Father Daniel’s shirt, lifts his head off the ground to punch him again, knuckle splitting open on a tooth. 

“Hey!” the bartender shouts, setting a bottle of whiskey down. 

Father Daniel knees Dean in the stomach and knocks him off, knocks the wind out of him, and uses the stool to pull himself off the floor. 

“Who are you to judge me?” he asks. “You and your friend—don’t think I don’t know about you. You’re unclean—you’re filth. You judge me, but your sins can’t be washed away.”

The bar’s gone quiet save for the music, “ _Gonna get high, man. I ain’t had enough._ ” Everyone keeps their eyes on Dean and Father Daniel, breaths held, waiting. Blood drips down Dean’s hand, his wrist. The bartender moves closer, slowly, a warning.

Dean huffs. He grabs his beer and knocks it back, finishes it in one long pull, and slams the bottle back down onto the bar hard enough for it to crack. He swipes the bottle of whiskey and lifts it towards the bartender in a toast. 

“Guess I’ll see you all in Hell,” he says. 

He turns around and walks out the door.

///

The sound of a familiar engine rumbling behind him is what gets Dean to finally stop walking. He stumbles, gravel crunching under his boots, and wobbles on his feet as he steps away from the road, the Impala pulling onto the shoulder. It stops beside him.

“You’re going the wrong way,” Cas says.

Dean points back down the road. “Any direction away from that—that fuckin’ cult—is the right way, if y’ask me.” 

Cas sighs and turns the engine off, gets out of the car. Dean takes a swig of whiskey, wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. The cut has healed over already, but there’s still blood smudged against his knuckles, drying on his wrist. 

“He didn’t even—” Dean laughs, voice slurred, and wobbles again. “He didn’t believe me.” 

Gently, Cas takes the bottle from him, their fingers brushing, and takes a drink. He swallows and makes a face at it, shakes his head before taking another. Dean reaches for it and Cas holds it back. 

“I think you’ve had enough,” he says. 

“Fuck you,” Dean says, but there’s no heat to it. 

He reaches out and grabs the front of Cas’s hoodie, grip loose, and pulls him in. Sinking against Cas’s chest, he closes his eyes and drops his head to his shoulder, feels the bottle of whiskey bumping into his back when Cas wraps his arms around him.

“I’unno what to do, Cas,” he says, voice tight. “I tried and—that sick fuck’s brainwashed him. Thinks he’s on some mission from God.”

“I know,” Cas says quietly. 

Dean sniffs, pulls away and wipes his eyes. Cas looks at him, soft and sad, hand still resting on his back.

“So now what?” Dean asks. 

“Now, you get in the car and I find somewhere to park,” Cas says, leading him out of the ditch. Dean lets Cas usher him into the Impala, watches as he rounds the front of the car and slips into the driver’s seat next to him. 

“We’ll try again,” he says. 

Slowly, Dean reaches out, slides his hand over Cas’s knee.

“Thanks,” he says. 

Cas smiles at him and covers his hand with his own.

///

“Morning, sunshines.”

Dean tries to squint through the sunlight, hot and bright on his face, his stomach turning with the effort it takes to lift his head off Cas’s shoulder. Cas shifts against him and digs sleep out of his eye, frowns at Meg leaning over the front seat. 

“What are you doing?” he asks. 

“Could ask you boys the same thing,” Meg says. She tugs at the blanket covering Dean’s shoulder and he grunts, grabs it back from her, tries to pull it over his head to block out the sun. Meg tsks. “Aw, did someone drink their body weight in booze last night?”

“Piss off,” Dean says.

Meg holds out a bottle of water for him. When he doesn’t move, Cas grabs it and unscrews the cap, hands it to Dean. His mouth feels sticky, tastes of old booze and vomit, that unpleasant hangover mix. He braves a mouthful of water and tries not to gag. 

Meg watches, amused. “Sam told me about your little visit.” 

“Yeah?” Dean leans into Cas’s side again, hands him the bottle. “He tell you about how he’s doing God’s work, even if it kills him?” 

“Something like that,” Meg says. 

Dean closes his eyes, drops his head against the back of the seat. 

“Lucifer’s grace is killing him,” he says. 

“I know,” Meg says. “And I say let it. Better than angels or demons getting to it.”

Dean lifts his head to give her a look. Meg holds her hand up before he can say anything. 

“But I know that won’t fly with you,” she says. “So what are you gonna do about it?”

“We might be able to extract it,” Cas says. Meg looks at him, curious, and Cas says, “There’s an angelic tool—sort of like a syringe—that you can use to remove angel grace from a vessel.”

“Can’t we just cut his throat and drain it out of him?” Meg asks. 

“All right—” Dean sits up, but his head twinges and his stomach gives a warning roll. He slumps back into the seat with a groan. Meg snorts at him. 

“That won’t work, Sam’s not possessed,” Cas says. “The procedure’s not without risks, but it’s the best way to remove the grace.” 

“Great,” Meg says. “So how do we do it?”

“We?” Dean says. “No no no, _we_ aren’t doing anything. Me and Cas are, and you’ll go back under whatever rock it is you crawled out from.” 

“Dean—” Cas says. 

“C’mon, man. You really wanna trust her?” Dean asks.

“I’m the one who’s been protecting Sam’s ass while you two play Dean and Castiel’s Excellent Roadtrip Adventure,” Meg snaps.

Dean lunges at her, hangover be damned. 

Cas grabs his shirt and pulls him back. “Stop it, both of you.” 

Dean glares at her. She glares back. Cas sighs. 

Meg relents first. “So, if you got the syringe thing, you’d be able to do it?”

“If we can find it, then yes,” Cas says. “The extraction itself is simple enough. It’s just that, with Sam’s current state…” 

The car falls silent. Meg looks at Dean again, who looks away, shakes his head. 

“I gotta get him out of there,” he says. “That preacher’s filled his head with all kinds of crazy, and every time he uses his power he gets worse.” 

“And the power of love wasn’t strong enough,” Meg says. “So what’s Plan B?” 

“I got no clue,” Dean says.

“We could kidnap him,” Cas says. 

Dean snorts. “Yeah, kidnap a ticking timebomb. That’d go great.” 

Cas sighs again. Dean rubs at his eyes.

“If I could just get him to listen to me,” he says. “Hell, if I could just get him to leave.” 

Meg nibbles on her bottom lip in thought. After a moment, she says, “I think I might know how.”

Dean looks up at her. “How’s that?”

“He thinks he’s doing God’s work, right?” she says. “Just give him a job to do.”


	9. Chapter 9

Dean barely makes it through the front gate before one of the security guards approaches him, shaking his head. Dean holds his hands up and steps back just as Meg appears at his side.

“Chill, Hugo,” she says. “He’s with me.” 

“Father Daniel issued a ban—” 

“He’s with me,” Meg says, sharp. 

Hugo looks between the two of them, eyes dark and mouth tight, but steps back to let them through. Meg grabs Dean’s arm and leads him towards the tent. 

“Not making any friends, Dean-o,” she says.

“I’m not here to make friends,” he says, pulling his arm out of her grip. Meg stops and sighs, turns to look at him.

“Remember,” she says. “Stay in the back, keep your head down, and don’t let Father Daniel see you. Wait until the crowd leaves before you go up to Sam—”

“I know,” he says. Through the open flap in the tent, he can see the stage, the podium, the rows of seats at the front that are already occupied.

“He’s probably gonna try and call security on you. Don’t let him,” Meg continues. “Talk quiet, talk fast, act desperate—should be easy for you.” 

Dean glares at her. 

“Beg if you have to,” she says. “If he still doesn’t listen, don’t fight. Just leave.” 

“I know,” Dean says again, voice tight. 

Meg nods. Then she shoves him through the flap.

///

Father Daniel talks loud and clear about second chances, redemption, cleaning away the sins of their past. Dean shifts uncomfortably, his stomach turning the more Father Daniel talks, and glances at the empty seat beside him.

Cas opted to stay back. Said the two of them there might be overwhelming. But it just makes it that much harder for him to sit through the service, to keep himself in check. 

Sam comes out as scheduled, and the sight of him makes Dean’s breath catch in his throat. It’s only been a few days since they arrived, but already he looks worse. His skin gray-looking, his hair thin, the bags under his eyes and the hollowness to his cheeks more prominent. He helps the first few people with no issues, but afterwards he starts to wane, starts to wobble, weak and unbalanced. The line of people needing to be healed still creeps towards the back of the tent. 

Finally, Sam rests his hands on the last person’s shoulders, his head dropping so suddenly Dean wonders if he’s passed out. The guest—an elderly man with a cane—gasps and starts crying as his leg is healed. Sam tries to smile and has to grab the podium for support. 

The rest of the crowd disperses and Father Daniel slips out the exit, leaving Sam to gather himself. He sits alone on a chair at the back of the stage, rubbing his head, and Dean makes his move. 

“Hey,” he says, voice loud in the empty tent. 

Sam’s hand drops from his head as he looks up, blinks to focus. Dean walks towards him like he’s approaching a scared animal, cautious, his footsteps light. Sam tenses and sits up straighter. 

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he says. 

“I know,” Dean says. “I wouldn’t have come if I wasn’t desperate.” 

Sam watches him but doesn’t say anything, doesn’t make a move to call security, so Dean continues. 

“I need your help,” he says. 

Sam bites out a laugh. “That’s rich.” 

“I just got news about my friend Bobby back in South Dakota,” Dean says. He reaches the steps at the bottom of the stage and stops. “He’s in a wheelchair and he’s very sick. The doctors didn’t give him long.” 

“So heal him,” Sam says. 

“I can’t.” Dean shakes his head. “Trust me, I tried before I left. But I’m not strong enough. I can’t do what you do.”

Sam works his jaw, stares towards the far of the tent, doesn’t say anything. 

“He’s like a father to me.” Dean closes his eyes, swallows down the sick feeling in his stomach, and says, “Please, Brother Matthew.”

After a moment, Sam finally sighs and turns to look at him.

“I’m sorry to hear about your friend,” he says. “I truly am. But I’m needed here.” 

Dean’s heart plummets. “I’m begging you, here.” 

“I’m sorry, but I can’t,” Sam says. “Please leave.”

Dean fights against the urge to shout at him, to grab the nearest object and throw it, his fists clenching at his sides and breath shaking out of him. He nods and turns to go, then pauses and looks back at Sam one more time.

“I wish you the best, Matthew,” he says. “I really do.” 

And with that, Dean walks away.

///

“Dean—” Cas tries.

“What do you want me to say?” Dean snaps. He bends down to grab one of his shirts out of the back seat and stuffs it into his duffel, then stands to look at Cas again. “I failed, okay? I had one job, and I failed. There, you happy?” 

“No, of course not,” Cas says. “This isn’t—I never said you failed.”

“Why did you even come, huh?” Dean asks. “So you can babysit me, so you can say ‘I told you so’ when this all inevitably goes to shit? Well congratulations, it did. So lay it on me, c’mon.”

Cas’s face darkens. “That’s not fair.”

Dean laughs, sharp and bitter, and reaches back into the car to grab more clothes. 

“You wanna talk about failures—about why I came?” Cas steps closer. “I came to find Sam so I could apologize to him. For failing him the same way I failed you.”

Dean grits his teeth, finds another shirt tucked in between the seat cushions. He pulls it out and shoves it into his bag. 

“I came to prove to myself that I’m still capable. That I’m still useful,” Cas continues. “And because I want answers. I want to know what happened just as much as you do.”

Dean zips up his bag and shuts the back door, moves towards the trunk. Cas grabs his shoulder to stop him and gently turns him around. Dean avoids his eye, stares at the clumps of trees instead, at the road stretching out in front of them. 

“I came because I wanted to be here when things got hard,” Cas says. “So I could tell you not to give up.”

Dean finally looks at him. 

“There’s nothing else to do,” he says. “He’s gone, Cas.”

He throws his duffel into the trunk and slams it shut without another word. Rounding the back of the car, he moves towards the driver’s seat, crashes to a halt at the sight of a figure standing in front of him.

“Sorry if this is a bad time,” Sam says.

Dean stares at him. Cas moves to stand next to Dean, warm against his side. 

Sam steps closer and looks between the two of them. The natural light does little to help the pallid look to his skin, the weakness in his movements. There’s no car nearby, not even a bike, and it hits Dean that Sam must have walked.

“I thought it over, and realized that I didn’t feel right about—about your situation,” he says. “About how easily I dismissed you. If I was in your shoes, I hope that someone would be willing to help me.” 

Dean swallows. “So… what are you saying?” 

“I’m saying, I wanna help you,” Sam says. “I wanna help your friend.”

///

It’s almost a thirty hour drive back to Sioux Falls—longer if they take the backroads, even driving over the speed limit—so they agree to leave that evening, just after sunset.

Dean parks at a small grocery store and Cas heads inside to buy coffee and snacks. A minute later, an old pick-up truck pulls in and Sam and Meg get out. Sam hands the driver some money, waving him off, and walks over, bag slung over his shoulder.

“What’d you tell Father Daniel?” Dean asks. 

Sam shrugs. “Just that I had some business out of town.” 

Dean nods and gestures to the Impala. Sam and Meg get in the back seat just as Cas walks out of the store. Dean whistles to him and Cas looks over, reacts just in time to catch the keys.

“You sure?” he asks. 

“Positive,” Dean says. “I could use a nap.” 

Cas smiles, the keys jingling in his hand. 

For a while the drive is easy. Sam passes out in the back, his head against the window and blanket around his shoulders, and Meg listens to her iPod in the seat next to him, watches the scenery go by. 

They stop in Nevada to switch places. Dean touches Cas’s back as they pass each other in the dark, his hand lingering a moment before he slides into the driver’s seat.

It’s not until they’re thirteen hours in, just outside of Wyoming, that they run into trouble.

///

Dean senses something’s off even as he pulls into the gas station. There’s a tingle—an itch, almost—at the back of his neck that he can’t shake away. Sam heads around back to use the bathroom and Meg goes inside. Cas stops next to him, touches his wrist.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

Dean shakes his head. They’ve been on the road for too long and his nerves are as thin as threads. He slips the gas nozzle back in its cradle and digs his wallet out of his pocket. 

Inside, he spots Meg in the back, thumbing through a gossip rag, and wanders over to the counter to wait for the cashier. The bell above the door jingles, and before Dean can turn around, someone presses something cold and hard against his throat. 

“Don’t move,” a voice says in his ear. 

Dean lifts his hands, glances towards the magazine rack to find Meg in a similar situation, a man in a black suit standing behind her, angel blade glinting at her neck. The bell jingles again and a third angel shoves Cas through the door, holds him so he can’t move. 

“Where’s your brother?” the angel at his back asks.

“He’s in a little place called Go Fuck Yourself,” Dean says. 

The angel presses her blade harder against his neck. “Let’s try that again.” 

“Hey!” 

The angel’s grip on him tightens as she turns around, dragging Dean with her. Sam stands in the doorway, his face dark as he looks around at them, and straightens to his full height. 

“Let them go,” he says. 

“Sam Winchester,” the angel says. “The Abomination.”

Sam frowns at her. “My name is Matthew.” 

The angel pauses. To Dean, she asks, “What’s he going on about?”

Dean doesn’t respond. 

“No matter,” she says. “Kill the demon and secure him.”

“Don’t touch her,” Sam says, stepping closer to the second angel. 

Meg moves in a blur, stomping down on the angel’s foot and headbutting him in the nose. He stumbles back, momentarily thrown, before he pulls his blade out of his jacket and spins it, raises it above his head. 

“I said don’t touch her!” Sam shouts. He lifts his hand and light trails down the veins in his wrists, cracks through the lines in his palm. 

The angel’s grip on Dean falters enough that he can get away. Cas elbows the angel behind him in the ribs and reaches out, grabs the front of Dean’s jacket, and pulls him down to the ground. 

With a loud bang, the gas station lights up. The force of the explosion breaks all the windows and knocks over snack stands, sets off a car alarm in the parking lot. The light fades and Dean lifts his head, his ears ringing.

“What the hell was that?” he asks. 

Cas grabs his arm and helps him off the ground. Meg groans in the corner, uses a tipped-over shelf as leverage to pull herself up, and waves dust away from her face. She picks an angel blade off the floor. A pair of smoking wing prints spread across the wall behind her. By the door, Sam lies in a heap, motionless.

The other angels stir under piles of junk food and bent metal shelving, injured and weak, but still alive. 

“Shit,” Dean says. 

“Grab Sam and go,” Meg coughs. Dean looks at her and she says, “I’ll get rid of these two, get what you need, and catch up with you later.”

“Meg, wait—” 

“They’re just gonna tail us if I don’t,” she says. One of the angels groans, starts to sit up, and Meg lifts the blade higher, throws a glare at him. “Move it, Dean!” 

Dean nods and scrambles towards Sam. Together, he and Cas lift him off the floor, throwing his arms around their shoulders to carry him outside. They hurry across the parking lot, Sam’s feet dragging in the gravel. Dean eases him into the back seat just as there’s a scream and a flash of light from inside the gas station.


	10. Chapter 10

After seven hours of driving through vast stretches of Wyoming nothingness, Dean pulls off the road and parks the car at the base of rock pile overlooking miles of dust and dead grass and small hills. 

They’re quiet as they dig a pit and build a fire out of dry grass and old fence posts. They sit on the ground, backs to the road, and roast hot dogs, eat them without buns. Cas fiddles with the radio for a few minutes before he gives up and tosses it aside, reaching for his beer instead. 

Dean casts glances back at the Impala every now and then, and each time Sam is still slumped over in the back seat, unmoving. 

“He’ll wake up,” Cas says, catching him looking for the umpteenth time. Dean takes a drink from his beer and shifts against the breeze, stares at his boots in the dirt. 

“Is that normal, what he did back there?” he asks. “I mean, how much juice does he have left?”

Cas looks away in thought. The sky’s gone red-gold, the sun starting to set behind the hills as a few cows wander down the road nearby, their hooves heavy on the cement. 

“It’s hard to say,” he decides. “I’ve never seen it, but with archangel’s grace… I suppose anything is possible.” 

Dean taps his fingers against his beer bottle, the glass cool and wet against his skin.

“What about me?” he asks. Cas frowns at him and Dean asks, “Lucifer’s grace is killing him. But what about me?” 

After a moment, Cas moves closer to him, sits with his legs bent and arms crossed on his knees, beer bottle loose in his hand. The setting sun and the glow of the fire makes his skin look warm to the touch, the scruff along his chin a dark shadow. 

“How do you feel?” he asks. “Physically, I mean.” 

Dean thinks on it for a minute. “In the beginning, when we first set out, I felt more—I dunno. Like I wanted to eat but I wasn’t hungry. And the only time I really felt tired was after I—y’know. Healed you, or whatever.” 

“And now?”

Dean gestures to the half-eaten pack of hot dogs. “I’m still hungry. And I’m beat. I could probably sleep for six hours, at least.”

Cas nods. “If I had to guess, Michael didn’t leave as much grace in you as Lucifer did in Sam. It’s why healing me took so much out of you. You probably wouldn’t be able to do it now.”

“So what, it’s not gonna kill me?” Dean asks. 

“I don’t think so. With you, I imagine it’d mostly fade away on its own, with time,” Cas says. “Unfortunately, we can’t afford to wait. Not with angels and demons after you.” 

Dean nods and taps his fingers against his beer bottle again. The cows have moved closer, eyeing them curiously from the side of the road as they stop to pick at whatever grass they can find. Another cool breeze rolls over them and Cas shifts, pulls his hoodie tighter. 

Dean looks at him. “How ‘bout you?” 

Cas looks back at him. “How ‘bout me what?” 

“What about your grace?”

Cas’s mouth twitches and he laughs, light. “I think that—uh. What’s the phrase? That ship has sailed.” 

“And you’re okay with that?” Dean asks.

“There are worse things.” Cas shrugs. He falls quiet and picks the radio up, starts to fiddle with it again. 

Dean watches him. “Like what?” 

“Like having questions but not being able to ask them.” Cas doesn’t meet his eye. “Or feeling… emotions, and thinking that’s a bad thing.” 

Dean nods and looks down at his hands. “So, what you’re saying is—” 

“What I’m saying is that, despite the hunger, and exhaustion, and the pain…” Cas stops fiddling and looks up at him. “I think I’d much rather be here.”

///

They keep the fire going strong after the sun sets. Without any light pollution from towns nearby, the stars shine in bright clusters overhead. It’s a cool night, crisp, and Dean’s hands shake on Cas’s belt buckle, the metal cold to the touch. A coyote yips in the distance, the noise carrying over the breeze, audible even with Bob Dylan playing on the radio.

Dean finally gets the buckle undone. Cas hums, slips his tongue past his lips, hot in his mouth, and someone clears their throat behind them. 

“Jesus,” Dean breathes out and pulls away, his face burning. 

“Sorry,” Sam says. “I, um—I smelled food.”

Even in the dark he looks worse, standing slouched with his head down, barely able to keep his eyes open. He hesitates a few feet away, eyes wandering to the package of hot dogs sitting on a nearby rock.

Dean gestures to them. “Help yourself.” 

“Thank you,” Sam says, and shuffles over to grab two from the package, wincing as he sits down. He shoves one onto the piece of metal wire Cas was using as a spit and eats the other one cold. 

Dean’s stomach turns as he watches him, worried. Next to him, Cas stands and grabs the radio, Bob Dylan still singing, “ _May you always know the truth, and see the light surrounding you._ ” Dean looks up at him and Cas squeezes his shoulder, gentle, before he walks away towards the car, leaving him alone with Sam. 

“Sorry,” Sam says again around a mouthful of hot dog. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.” 

“Yeah,” Dean says. He clears his throat and says, “No. It’s, uh—it’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”

Sam nods and swallows his food. He pulls another hot dog out of the package and sticks it onto the spit. 

“Where’s Meg? Is she here?” he asks.

“She’s gonna meet up with us,” Dean says. “Do you remember what happened?”

Sam takes another bite of hot dog, chews for a moment. 

“I heard a noise so I went to look, and those people had you guys at knifepoint,” he says. “I got angry at the one holding Meg. Like, really angry. And I felt this—this energy, almost, inside me. Then there was a bright light and then I woke up here.”

He swallows his next bite and stares into the fire a moment before he looks up. 

“One of them called me Sam Winchester,” he says. 

“Yeah,” Dean says.

Sam studies him, quiet. In the glow of the fire, his face almost looks skeletal, like death warmed over, his cheekbones sharp enough to cut and eyes like black holes. Sam sets the spit down and clasps his hands between his knees. 

“You were telling the truth, weren’t you?” he asks. “About me. And you—you really are my brother, aren’t you?”

Dean smiles. “‘Fraid so.” 

“I’m sorry,” Sam says. “I don’t remember.”

“Yeah.” Dean grabs another beer out of the cooler and says, “I know.”

After a while, Sam finishes his food, wipes his hands on his jeans, and stands up. Bidding Dean goodnight, he shuffles back to the car, climbs into the back seat, and shuts the door. 

Dean drinks and watches the fire slowly burn down to embers.

///

It’s another eight hours to Sioux Falls. The few patches of green, the stretches of prairie that run alongside the road are a welcome change from the dust and dead grasses of the deserts. Sam sleeps curled up in the back seat as Cas drives, one hand on the wheel, window open despite the rain. Dean closes his eyes, the wind cool against his face.

Eventually, Cas breaks the silence. “We need to talk about the plan.” 

Dean huffs. “Hope to hell that Meg doesn’t betray us, actually manages to find the thing, and gets it to us before Sam bites it?” 

“Well, yes. That. But assuming she gets it to us in time,” Cas says. “I just want you to be prepared for the possibility—”

“I know,” Dean says.

“No, you don’t,” Cas says, glancing at him. “Even if Sam survives the extraction, there’s still the chance that you might never get your brother back.”

Dean swallows and looks out the window. The rain hangs over the fields and soaks the ground, drips off the few trees scattered here and there. 

“So, basically, we need a miracle,” Dean says. 

“Or a lot of luck,” Cas says. Then, he adds, “Just because a full recovery is unlikely doesn’t mean it’s impossible, Dean.”

“Weirder things have happened,” Dean says. Like somehow derailing an angelic prizefight, or radios broadcasting his emotions. Or an angel giving up heaven for cross-country roadtrips and gas station coffee. Dean looks over at Cas and says, “Right?”

Cas catches his eye, watches him for a moment. The corner of his mouth twitches into a small smile. 

“Absolutely,” he says.

///

The front door opens when they pull into the driveway. Bobby rolls onto the porch, shotgun in his lap, and watches as Dean parks the car and kills the engine.

Dean catches his eye, gives him a nod, and rounds the back of the car to grab their bags from the trunk. Cas bends down to help Sam out of the back seat, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. He shuts the door and carefully leads Sam up the stairs.

They stop at the top, and slowly, Sam stretches his hand out. “You must be Bobby.” 

Bobby stares up at him for a long moment before he takes his hand, gives it a gentle shake, shooting a glance towards Dean. Dean climbs the steps and looks at Cas, who nods, and carefully leads Sam inside. 

Bobby looks at Dean again. “What in the hell happened?” 

“I can’t—” Dean shakes his head and collapses into a nearby chair, legs weak and head pounding. He rubs at his eyes for a moment, tries to calm his breathing, looks up when he feels Bobby’s chair bump his boot. 

“It’s bad, Bobby,” he says.

Bobby rests his hand on his shoulder, solid and strong, and looks at him, his jaw tight as he bites back whatever he’s feeling. 

“It’s okay, boy,” he says, and Dean breaks apart.

///

Sam takes the mug of tea Cas hands him and nods in thanks. Cas sits down next to him as Sam takes a drink, eyes closed to savor the taste a moment before he sets the mug down on the table and turns to Bobby.

“So, what exactly is your condition?” he asks.

“Stab wound,” Bobby says.

“And what else?” Sam asks.

Bobby studies him from across the top of his desk for a moment, glass of whiskey in hand, before he looks at Dean leaning against the far wall. “What crock of shit story did you tell him, again?”

Sam frowns in confusion, turns to Dean, who scratches the back of his neck a moment before he gives up. 

“Fine. I may have, uh—exaggerated some details,” he says.

Sam looks at Bobby again. “So you’re not sick?”

“Not unless you count old age and alcoholism.” 

Sam nods, stiff, looks at Dean again. “So you lied to me.”

“I had to, Sam,” Dean says. “You would’ve never agreed to leave otherwise.”

“I was helping people,” Sam says. “Good, honest people.” 

“Father Daniel was not honest,” Dean says. “For Christ’s sake, Sam, the man was using you. He didn’t care if you got sick and died so long as you kept the crowds coming.” 

Sam huffs and looks away.

“I know you don’t remember, but you gotta believe me,” Dean says. “You know me. We’re family. I’m doing this to help you.”

Sam’s jaw works for a moment before he meets his eye. 

“Fine. But I’m not doing this for you.” Sam sets his mug on the table and stands up, wobbling on the spot. He nods towards Bobby and says, “I’m doing it for him.”

Bobby blinks. “What?” 

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” Cas says. 

Sam closes his eyes a moment before he looks at Cas. “With all due respect, it’s none of your business.”

Dean unfolds his arms and pulls away from the wall. “Hey, don’t—”

“It’s fine, Dean,” Cas says. 

“Hold on a second,” Bobby says, looking between the three of them. “What’s going on?”

“I came here to heal you,” Sam says. 

“Except he’s sick, and it’s killing him everytime he does,” Dean says. 

“So what if it does?” Sam shouts at him. “What does it matter?”

“It matters because we’re family,” Dean says. “So I’m not gonna let you—” 

“Stop saying we’re family,” Sam snaps. “That might be true for you, but it’s not for me. I don’t even know you.”

It hits like a kick to the gut, so hard it almost knocks the wind out of him. The room falls painfully quiet, the only sound the steady tick of Bobby’s old clock. Sam deflates, his shoulders drooping, but before he can say anything, Bobby sets his glass of whiskey down on his desk. 

“It matters if it’s a choice between me walking or you dying, son,” he says. 

Sam shakes his head and takes an unsteady step forward, then another. Cas reaches for him, moves to help him, but Sam waves him off, manages to make his way over to Bobby’s desk on his own. 

“I’ve hurt enough people already. If helping you is my last act on Earth, then so be it,” he says. He lowers himself to the floor in front of Bobby’s chair, rests his hands on his knees. “‘Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy.’”

“Wait,” Bobby says, but Sam tightens his grip on his knees. 

He closes his eyes and bows his head, a dull, white light glowing from his palms, his hands shaking. Cas stands from the couch and Dean moves closer. With a deep gasp, Sam lets go, the light fading, and drops his hands from Bobby’s knees. 

Dean takes another step towards him and Sam holds up his hand, shakes his head, uses the desk to pull himself off the floor.

“I’m fine,” he says. 

“Bobby?” Cas asks. 

Staring down at Sam, eyes wide in a mix of awe and shock and terror, Bobby blinks. He looks up at Cas, then Dean, then he swallows. Hands gripping the arms of his chair, Bobby slowly moves his right foot onto the floor, then his left. Carefully, he eases himself out of his chair, and stands. 

“I can walk,” he says, breathless, and breaks into a grin. To Sam, he says, “Thanks—thank you!” 

Sam smiles at him, gives him a slow nod, then collapses onto the floor.


	11. Chapter 11

The front door opens behind him with a creak. He feels something cold press against his arm and looks down, takes the beer bottle from Bobby’s hand and cracks it open. He takes a long pull from the neck, the bubbles tickling his tongue, and swallows, wipes his mouth. 

Bobby leans against the porch railing next to him, his own bottle in hand. He watches him as Dean stares out across the lot, at the piles of used up, broken cars and scrap metal. 

Eventually, Dean asks, “How is he?” 

“Weak,” Bobby says. “Doesn’t know where he is or how he got here.” 

Dean exhales and closes his eyes. Thunder rumbles in the distance, dark clouds gathering above the farmer’s fields across the road. 

Bobby takes a drink from his beer and looks down at his hands. “D’you think this is a good idea?” 

Dean looks at him. “He’s my brother, Bobby.”

“I know,” Bobby says. “And I know you’ve been carin’ for him practically your whole life. But if this doesn’t work, you’re gonna have to let it go.”

Dean shakes his head. “I don’t—I don’t know if I can.” 

Bobby steps closer and looks him in the eye. “I ain’t askin’.” 

Dean swallows, tries to keep the anger bubbling in his stomach in check because Bobby’s right. He’s been told his whole life that he and Sam are too dependent on each other—and he knows that, he does—but there’s knowing it, and then there’s moving past it.

“Am I interrupting?” 

They look up. Meg raises an eyebrow, looks between them from where she leans against the twisted skeleton of an old Mustang. A cut splits her bottom lip, her left eye dark with a bruise, but she smirks at them and pulls a small wooden box from behind her back.

“Got you boys a gift,” she says. She walks towards the stairs and Dean pulls away from the railing, moves closer when Meg holds it out for him. 

“Is this it?” he asks. 

“No, it’s Lucifer’s stamp collection,” Meg says. Dean stares at her and she rolls her eyes. “Yes, that’s it.” 

Dean looks down at the box, old and dusty, made from cherry wood. There’s no engraving on the front, no hint as to what it contains, just brass hinges and a small lock that’s been broken. 

He looks up and says, “Thank you.”

“Aw, don’t. You’ll make me feel all gooey inside, Dean-o,” Meg says. She folds her arms and leans against the railing. “So we gonna drain this bitch, or what?”

///

Cas stands up when Dean enters the panic room, box in hand. Dean holds his breath when he hands it over, looks at Sam stretched out on the cot, breathing shallow and skin gray, eyes barely open. Sam doesn’t say anything, doesn’t react to them at all. Meg and Bobby stand quietly in the doorway.

Cas places the box on a nearby table and opens it. He pulls the syringe out—long and clear, Enochian etchings scrawled up the glass and two handles at the bottom—and inspects it closely, then turns to Meg. 

“Where did you find it?” he asks. 

Meg shrugs. “Lucifer stashed shit all over the place. It was in one of his crypts.” 

Apparently satisfied with that answer, Cas turns to Dean and gestures towards Sam. “Could you strap him down for me, please?” 

Dean hesitates. He looks at Sam lying motionless on the cot. 

“Is that really necessary?” he asks.

Cas just looks at him, expression soft and sad, and Dean relents. Without a word, he moves towards the cot, reaches for the strap closest to him. Sam grabs his wrist and Dean jumps in surprise. 

“Dean,” Sam says, voice cracked and barely audible. “I’m sorry.” 

“It’s okay,” Dean says. “It’s okay, Sammy. You’re gonna be okay.” 

Sam closes his eyes and lets go of Dean’s wrist. Dean straps him to the cot and tries to keep his hands from shaking. Cas pulls up a chair and sits down next to Sam’s head, holds him down gently with his left hand before he looks up at Dean. 

“You might not want to watch this,” he says. 

Dean swallows. “Just do it.”

Cas nods and turns back to the cot. Gently, he eases the point of the syringe into Sam’s neck. The silence in the room is deafening as Cas pushes the syringe deeper, biting his lip in concentration. He hits his mark, stops to gather himself, then slowly, carefully, pulls back the plunger. 

Sam lets out a shout that shakes the walls, loud and sudden like an explosion. Dean stumbles backwards and Cas pauses, exhales, closes his eyes for a moment before he keeps going. Sam thrashes on the cot and claws at the frame, knuckles white, chest heaving as he cries out in pain.

Dean’s stomach rolls and he turns away, towards the door. Bobby and Meg move aside to let him pass.

///

A storm rolls in as Dean paces the junkyard. He carves a path between the cars and hunks of metal until his legs get sore, then he holes up in the back seat of a Firebird. He watches lightning crack the sky overhead and listens to the deep rumble of thunder that blocks out the distant, muffled sound of Sam’s screams.

Bobby finds him after the storm’s passed, his shoes heavy on the gravel. The sky’s gone red, the sun setting behind the house, and fog rolls into the lot from off the fields. Bobby slows his steps and stops next to the Firebird. 

“It’s time for you to come inside,” he says. 

Dean stares out the window. “Is he dead?”

The car shifts and Bobby slips into the seat next to him. 

“He ain’t dead,” he says, and Dean sighs in relief, slumps down into the seat. “But we can’t tell what his condition is until he wakes up.” 

Dean looks at him. “You mean if he wakes up.”

Bobby doesn’t say anything. Dean nods and looks away, bites the inside of his cheek to keep from shouting, to keep from lashing out or crying or throwing up. 

“We still gotta get that grace outta you,” Bobby says.

“Michael’s grace isn’t killing me.”

“No,” Bobby agrees. “But those angels and demons will.” 

Dean closes his eyes and exhales. 

“Lucifer’s grace is out of him. We’ve done all we can,” Bobby says. “So for once in your damn life, worry about you.”

Dean looks at him again. Bobby grabs his shoulder and shakes him gently, pleading, and Dean relents.

“Yeah,” he says. Stomach tight and hands numb, he says, “Okay.”

///

Dean looks at the syringe and swallows. “Just how bad is this gonna be?”

Cas finishes strapping him to the cot and looks down at him, eyes dull and dark with exhaustion. Dean feels it like a punch, the sudden realization that Cas is hurting, that this isn’t easy on him, either. 

“I’m sorry,” he says. “Fuck—I’m sorry, Cas. You don’t have to—I can do it myself. I’ll—”

“No, you can’t,” Cas says. Then he smiles, soft and small and tired, and touches his arm. “But thank you.”

He rests his hand on Dean’s head, holds him down, and Dean closes his eyes, tries to breathe. The first pinch of the syringe entering his skin is barely noticeable and Cas murmurs quietly above him, brushes his eyebrow with his thumb. He pulls up on the plunger and the pinch becomes a sharp, shooting pain. 

Dean grits his teeth against it, digs his nails into the cot, but the more Cas pulls the sharper the pain gets until Dean shouts, his vision dark around the edges as his head pounds, his stomach rolling. The feeling of Cas’s hand on him, soft and gentle, and the rumble of his voice all disappear as something jagged and ice-cold rips through Dean’s veins, bites like razor wire and shreds his insides. 

Somewhere dark, somewhere distant and cold, someone shouts, “Stop!”


	12. Chapter 12

Dean smells rain, smells grass and mud, tastes something hot and copper. There’s static in the air, vibrating in his bones. Thunder roars overhead, so loud the air around him moves, the ground under him shakes, and Dean opens his eyes. 

There’s dirt under his nails, blood, his knuckles cut and bruised. In front of him, Lucifer struggles to stand, his face—Sam’s face—pale, broken and bloody, one eye swollen shut. Dean looks at him and feels something surge in his chest, something that used to be powerful, something otherworldly that now bleeds out. He holds it back, feels it rage and scratch at his insides, fight against him. 

“I said stop!” he shouts. The sky cracks open overhead, a bolt of lightning scorching the grass next to him, catching it on fire. Dean heaves himself off the ground, groaning with the effort, his body aching, and stands up straight. 

“Dean,” Lucifer bites out. “What the hell are you doing?” 

“I wanna talk to Sam,” Dean says.

Lucifer laughs, cold and sharp, the noise digging under Dean’s skin. Anger flares in his chest and Dean throws a bomb of light into Lucifer’s stomach, burning the front of Sam’s shirt and sending Lucifer stumbling backwards. 

Lucifer struggles to right himself, eyes wide. “How—how did you do that?” 

Somewhere inside him, Michael struggles, tries to claw back to the surface. Dean kicks at him, holds him down, and raises his hand, closes his fist. Lucifer shouts and buckles, falls to his knees. 

“Stop—Dean, stop!”

Dean lets go and wobbles on the spot. Sam coughs and gags, spits blood into the grass. 

“I got him,” he heaves. “I got him.” 

“Sam,” Dean breathes. “Sammy—you gotta do it.”

Sam clenches his fist against his stomach and coughs again. More blood drips out of the corner of his mouth. 

“I can’t—” 

“Yes you can!”

Sam closes his eyes and shakes his head. 

“Come on, Sam,” Dean says. “I trust you.”

Sam lets out a weak laugh and looks up at him. He smiles, tired and broken. Empty.

“See you on the other side,” he says, and lifts his hand.

A fire-hot pain explodes in Dean’s chest. It burns down to his stomach and up his throat, out his mouth, pounds inside his head and stings his eyes as everything goes white. Inside him, Michael screams, twists against him. The air tightens around him as something rips out from his back, his shoulders, something sharp and cold and immense. 

In a last ditch effort to take control, Michael spreads his wings and takes flight, tears away from the cemetery. 

He lands hard in the front seat of the Impala. The radio bursts into static, music bleeding through, “ _Whoopi-ty-aye-yay, I go my way, back in the saddle again,_ ” as he claws at the passenger door. 

Michael falls onto the gravel shoulder in a heap. He crawls towards the ditch, his insides melting, liquid-hot, air scratching at his throat. Managing to right himself, he stumbles as he cuts a path through a wheat field, thunder rumbling in the distance. Head fuzzy and ears ringing, his wings burn, falling apart as his grace leaks out of him. 

He stops in the middle of the field and falls to his knees, the last of his feathers disintegrating behind him. Michael shouts in anger, in defeat as his grip on his vessel falls slack, slips away, the light inside him finally going out.

///

Someone shuts a door and Dean comes to in a dark bedroom.

Lightning flashes outside, still miles away, the curtains riding a cool breeze. A figure walks past the open window, a shadow cutting across the dim light as they move next to the bed. Carefully, Dean reaches out to them, his fingers brushing the arm of their flannel shirt. 

The figure pauses. “Dean?”.

“Yeah,” Dean says, voice deep and scratchy. 

The bedside lamp clicks on and Dean squints against it. Slowly, he sits up, the thin blanket around his shoulders pooling into his lap, and rubs at the dull ache in his head. Everything feels sore and heavy, weighed down. The clock on the nightstand reads just after 10pm.

“How long have I been out?” he asks, looking around. His duffel sits tucked under the desk, his coat hanging off the chair, and his wallet and keys rest on the nightstand. 

Cas sits down on the edge of the mattress and hands him a glass of water. “About three days.”

Dean takes a drink, the water cool and refreshing against his throat. He drains the glass in a few gulps and sets it down next to his keys.

“Sam?” he asks.

“He’s still out, but he’s stable,” Cas says. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I got hit by a truck.”

Cas nods. “That sounds about right.” 

Dean huffs. Cas looks at him and smiles. The bags under his eyes aren’t as prominent, the color’s returned to his skin, and Bobby’s obviously been giving him hand-me-downs to wear, the sleeves of his red flannel loose around his knuckles.

Dean studies him for a long moment, then says, “Thank you, Cas.”

Cas frowns. “You don’t need to thank me.”

“Yeah, I do,” Dean says. “You’ve given up so much and I’ve never thanked you for it. But—I’m glad you’re here, man. I really am.” 

“Well, I wanted to,” Cas says, quiet. “And I would again.”

Something in Dean’s chest heats, warms him up. He leans in and brushes his mouth against Cas’s, slow and careful, testing the waters in case something’s changed, in case Cas feels different now that they’re clawing their way back to normalcy, or something like it. 

Cas exhales, a little shaky, and kisses him back, reaches up to brush his thumb across his cheek. Dean shifts, pulls the blanket back to move closer to him, to pull him in, and Cas hums, breaks away.

“You need to rest,” he says. 

“Yeah,” Dean says. “I think three days is enough.”

Cas’s mouth twitches and he lets Dean pull him down, press his tongue to his bottom lip, lets him reach up to unbutton the front of his shirt and push it off his shoulders.

The house is silent around them, calm despite the storm brewing outside, a stark contrast from a few days before. Cas sucks at his neck, breath hot and stubble scratching his skin, reaches down to untie Dean’s sweatpants and pull them down his thighs. Dean kicks them off and rolls to his side, presses back against the front of Cas’s jeans, feels him hard. 

Cas’s breath hitches. “ _Dean._ ”

“C’mon,” Dean murmurs. Cas leans back, drops his hands between them to undo his belt, his fly, and pulls his jeans off. 

Dean mouths at his jaw, digs the packet of lube and a condom from his wallet and slips them into Cas’s hand. Cas rips the lube open with his teeth and works him open, careful. Dean breathes hard, skin burning, voice cracking when he says, “ _Please_ ,” and Cas pulls his hand away to get the condom on and slick himself up, guides his cock inside and slides home. 

Mouth against the bolt of Dean’s jaw, Cas says, “I’m glad you’re here, too.”

Dean whimpers and Cas fucks him slow, quiet, the bed creaking under them, Dean twisting the sheets in one hand, the other reaching to grab Cas’s thigh. He turns to kiss him, to breathe into his mouth, clumsy, as Cas wraps his hand around his throat, loose and gentle, slides it down to pull Dean tighter against his chest, bury himself deeper.

“God—there, like that,” Dean gasps. “Fuck— _fuck, Cas._ ”

Cas groans into his neck. He slips his hand between Dean’s legs to wrap around him, stroke him steady, Dean getting Cas’s palm slick as his insides melt, his breath catching on a moan as he starts to come. Cas leaves stubble burn on his skin as he works him through it, his rhythm shot to hell, tensing against his back. With a soft, broken noise, Cas falls apart, his fingers digging into Dean’s thigh.

Thunder rattles the window, the first few drops of rain hitting the roof, and Dean rearranges the blanket around them, the air cooling. He watches the dark clouds roll in as his breathing slows.

“Just tell me he’ll be okay,” he says.

He’s sore and drained and exhausted, worn out, full up and almost sick with nerves. Cas slips his arms around him, brushes his fingers through his hair, and Dean melts into his touch.

“He’ll be okay,” Cas says. Dean closes his eyes.

///

Bobby starts making noise in the kitchen at seven in the morning.

The sun shines hot through the window and Dean kicks the blanket down, feeling stuffy and overheated, his stomach growling and body aching a good ache, the kind that makes his skin burn. When he rolls over he finds Cas still asleep, stretched out and naked behind him, bare skin warm to the touch.

Dean roams his fingers over his side for a moment, traces the Enochian scrawl on his ribs, the anti-possession sigil on his chest. Cas hums but doesn’t wake up, and Dean pulls himself out of bed, grabs his sweatpants off the floor.

He showers and shaves, makes himself look as presentable as he can with noticeable stubble burn on his neck, then heads downstairs. Cas is already at the kitchen table, warming his hands on a mug of coffee and scowling at Bobby, who mutters something about “breaking the machine one more damn time” before looking up at Dean.

“Well, look who finally decided to wake up,” he says. “There’ll be more coffee as soon as I figure out what the hell Feathers did to my coffee maker.”

“I didn’t do anything to it, it just broke,” Cas says.

Bobby ignores him and Cas huffs into his mug. Dean grabs a plate out of the cupboard and glances at the stove. The bacon looks a little extra crispy and the eggs look a little too easy.

“You never told me you were a chef, Bobby,” he says.

“Don’t get cute with me, boy.”

“Anyone seen Meg? She might like charcoal.”

“Said she was going into hiding—and that’s bacon grease, y’idjit.”

Dean picks up a floppy piece of bread and frowns at it. “How do you mess up toast?”

“If you don’t like it, you can starve,” Bobby says.

“There enough for me?”

They turn around. Cas looks over his shoulder. Sam hovers awkwardly in the doorway.

Dean’s heart jumps. He sets his plate on the counter and slowly makes his way across the kitchen. Sam watches him, swallows as he gets close. His hair is messy and his skin is still missing some color, but his eyes look clear for the first time since Dean’s seen him.

Quietly, Dean says, “Sammy?”

Sam’s chin wobbles and Dean grabs him, yanks him hard into a hug. Sam wraps his arms around him, squeezes him tight, and Dean closes his eyes, head light and knees weak with relief.

With a sob, Sam breaks, his grip tight on the back of Dean’s t-shirt. Dean holds him in the kitchen doorway, lets Sam shake against him, and says, “It’s okay, Sammy. You’re okay.”

///

Dean spends the better part of the afternoon in the yard, buried under the Impala to fix a few scratches and dings, to check the wobble the passenger wheel got on the road. The sun shines hot overhead, the skies clear.

After a few hours, he feels a kick to his boot and pulls himself out from under the car, comes face-to-face with a bottle of beer. He glances up to find Sam looking down at him, dressed in one of his old, ugly plaids and a pair of loose jeans. With his hair trimmed and beard shaved, he looks his old self again.

“Y’know, I heard the Jesus look is in this year,” Dean says.

Sam huffs. “Shut up.”

Dean takes the beer from him and cracks it open, uses the car to pull himself off the ground. He leans against the door and Sam comes to stand next to him, mirrors his position and drinks his beer quietly, contemplative.

Finally, he says, “I owe you an apology.”

“No you don’t, Sam,” Dean says.

Sam looks at him. “Yeah, I do. So just let me say this.”

Dean clenches his jaw and looks down at his boots.

“All that faith healer crap, losing my memory—I’m sorry that happened. That it hurt you and Bobby and Cas, even if I didn’t know what I was doing,” Sam says. “But I knew what you were going to do. I knew you were going to say yes to Michael, and I—I wasn’t fast enough to stop you. By the time Cas and I got to the motel you were already gone.”

“Sam—“

“I should have tried reaching out to you, somehow. Or looking for a spell, or just—doing something. Anything,” Sam says. “Anything other than saying yes.”

Dean swallows. “Yeah, well. I said yes first, so. It’s on me.”

“No it’s not, don’t say that,” Sam says. “Dean. Look—we’re just gonna go around in circles about this until we die. We both fucked up. Big time. So I think all there is to do right now is try and fix it the best we can.”

Dean looks at him, then nods. “I think you’re right.”

Sam leans back against the car and says, “Great.”

Dean takes a drink from his beer. Then frowns.

“How do we fix it?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” Sam says, looking at him. “But we’ll figure it out. And until then…” 

“Just do what we always do?” Dean asks.

“Yeah.” Sam nods. “Only, let’s try and not start an apocalypse this time.”

///

The phone rings as they’re eating dinner.

They stop mid-conversation—Sam filling them in on how he stabbed himself with an angel blade to kill Lucifer, then woke up naked in a barn and was promptly chased out by a near-blind sheep farmer wielding a pitchfork—and look at each other. Then at Bobby, who blinks and gets out of his chair.

The phone continues to ring, rattling in its cradle. Bobby looks at them and they wave him on. Dean watches, breath held, as he reaches out slowly to pick it up, finally presses it to his ear.

“Hello?” he tries. After a beat, his shoulders relax and his mouth turns up in a smile. “I’ll be damned—Sheriff Mills.” 

Dean and Sam throw each other a glance. Sam looks away, his mouth twitching, and Dean ducks his head to hide his laugh. Cas squints at them, unamused, but doesn’t say anything. 

“Yep, we’re all accounted for here,” Bobby says. “Thanks for checkin’ in.”

“Huh,” Dean says. Bobby hangs up the phone and shuffles back to his seat.

“Guess they got some phone lines back up,” Sam says. 

“That’s a good sign, right?” Cas asks.

“Let’s hope,” Bobby says, and picks up his glass of whiskey.

///

Dean finds him on the porch later.

Sitting on a chair in the corner, eyes closed and feet propped up on the railing, Cas listens to his radio. A few moths dance around the porch light, slow and sluggish in the humidity, and crickets chirp in the ditches along Bobby’s driveway, nearly deafening in the quiet night air.

“Mind if I join?” Dean asks. He holds out a beer and Cas opens his eyes.

Smiling, Cas takes it and says, “Not at all.”

Dean sits down next to him and takes a drink. Beyond the porch, the piles of cars scattered around the lot glint in the moonlight, and the stars shine bright above the fields across the road. There’s only a few clouds in the sky—the first clear night in days, according to Bobby.

“Think things’ll ever go back to how they were?” Dean asks.

Cas hums, rubs his thumb along the label of his beer. “Exactly how they were? No.”

“But better than they are now?”

Cas nods. “With time.”

The song on the radio fades and a new one starts, some old, slow guitar blues that feels like a warm blanket. Dean looks down at his beer, taps his fingers against the glass, worries his bottom lip as he tries to work up some courage. When he looks up again, Cas is watching him, small smile on his lips, and Dean’s heart flutters.

“What?” he asks.

“I was gonna ask the same thing,” Cas says.

Dean clears his throat. “I was just—uh, y’know. Wondering what you’re gonna do now, is all.”

“Well, first I’m gonna drink this,” Cas says, lifting his bottle. “Then I don’t know. Maybe shower. Or maybe we’ll have sex again. Or maybe we’ll just go to bed. All definite possibilities.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean.”

Cas studies him for a moment, amused, then relents.

“Well, since angels and demons getting their hands on archangel grace is no longer a threat, everything’s going to be business as usual—more or less,” he says. “So, I should probably learn how to use a gun.”

Dean stares at him. Cas takes a drink from his bottle.

“So…” Dean says. “You’re gonna stay?”

“If that’s all right with you,” Cas says.

Dean looks away and nods, lifts his beer to his mouth. “Yeah, sure. I guess.”

Cas smiles and Dean grins, nudges his knee with his own. Cas leans back in his chair again and taps his fingers along to the beat of the music. Dean watches the moths fluttering against the light for a moment. Then he frowns and looks back at Cas.

“Speaking of,” he says. “What did you do with the archangel grace, anyway?”

Cas just smiles and turns up the volume on his radio.

**Author's Note:**

>  **General Warnings:** (Very temporary - only a few paragraphs) major character death, memory loss, show-level violence, angst, religious/cultish tones, and explicit sexual content. 
> 
> i’m not american, so most descriptions were created after spending hours on google maps and not from personal experience. thank you so much to [kira](http://wendaego.tumblr.com/) and [sara](http://domesticadventures.tumblr.com/) for helping me whack this into shape, listening to me whine, and generally putting up with me when I was struggling. all remaining mistakes/weirdness are my own.
> 
> this fic has a bunch of song references. you can [listen to them all here](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL4umnoIyZlxQUro6UrOit4De-9UpQ9JYe) in order of appearance. i'm also on [tumblr](http://deathbanjo.tumblr.com).


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